Gutter-Babies 


DOROTHEA  SLADE 


,-n 


Gutter-Babies 


Blanchie  threatening  (p.  166) 


Gutter-Babies 

BY 

DOROTHEA   SLADE 
Hi 

With  Illustrations  by 
LADY  STANLEY 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

(Cfre  RftJEtrfifce  prw  Cambridge 

1912 


COPYRIGHT,   1912,  BY  DOROTHEA  SLADB 
ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED 

Published  October  iqia 


Contents 

I.  Guttergarten  and  the  Fall        ...       I 

II.  A  Paradise  Lost 10 

III.  The  Philosophy  of  the  Gutter  .       .       .14 

IV.  The  Pedigree  of  Johnny    ....    24 
V.  Walking  out  with  Special  Johnny  .       .     34 

VI.  Where  the  Gutter-Babies  Play       .      .    45 

VII.   Trippers  in  Guttergarten         ...     52 

VIII.   The  Development  of  Johnny    ...    59 

IX.  The  Gutter  Parson 67 

X.  How  the  Gutter-Babies  Go  .  .80 

XI.  The  Minding  of  a  Gutter-Baby  .  .  87 
XII.  A  Grandmother  in  Guttergarten  .  .  100 

XIII.  The  Gutter  Philanthropy         .       .       .  in 

XIV.  A  Silent  Sappho 124 

XV.  The  Gutter-Baby  Mystic         .       .       .  133 

XVI.  The  Crown  of  Thorns        .  x  .       .       .144 

XVII.   "At  Home"  in  Guttergarten  .      .      .  157 

XVIII.   The  Elder  Lizzie   .  .  166 


Contents 

XIX.  The  Open  Door  in  Guttergarten       .  176 

XX.  The  Time  to  Hop 189 

XXI.  The  Game  in  Guttergarten         .      .196 

XXII.  The  Prisoner  of  Guttergarten     .       .  207 

XXIII.  The  Starver 219 

XXIV.  The  Frown  of  Guttergarten  .       .      .  229 
XXV.  Thursday    .      .      .   ,;* /r  ,; ;.].../„  243 

XXVI.  The  Palm  Boy     .  VV   ^*W.  .  •  256 

XXVII.  Among  the  Deaf  and  Dumb       .  .  264 

XXVIII.   The  Christmas  Tree       .       .       .  .275 

XXIX.  An  Omo-Pathetic  Opinion    .       .  .  288 

XXX.  The  Boy  in  the  Wood    .      .      .  .297 

XXXI.   The  Jest  of  Guttergarten     .       .  .308 

XXXII.   Sick  Gutter-Babies         ....  320 

XXXIII.  The  Twilight  of  Johnny       .      .  .334 


Illustrations 

Blanchie  threatening  (p.  166)  .  .  .  Frontispiece 
"My  beauty  a  liften'  up  'is  voice"  ...  2 
A  youthful  philosopher  in  the  flattest  pose  .  16 
"Run!  run!"  screamed  Johnny  ....  84 
The  Poetess  teaching  long  stories  in  verse  .  .  128 
"Please 'member  the  Grotto!"  .  .  .  .140 

The  Strange  Woman  lurched  against  the  ban- 
nisters  164 

"We  can't  agree".      .      .      .      .      .      .      .202 

Struggling  to  command  her  dizzy  senses      .      .  220 
A  Gutter-baby  was  taking  his  first  walk      .      .  282 
It  was  an  unusually  hard  winter     ....  310 

A  group  of  stealthy  figures  sliding  away     .      .  340 


Gutter-Babies 

CHAPTER   I 

Gutter garten  and  the  Fall 


F  ""^HERE  has  never  been  more  than  one 
sin  in  Guttergarten.  The  whole  ex- 

-*-  perience  of  the  race  has  come  down  to 
the  Gutter  in  the  relentless  severity  of  one 
prohibitive  commandment,  "Thou  shalt  not 
be  found  out."  Upon  this  elementary  princi- 
ple the  Gutter  has  schooled  its  young  for  un- 
told generations,  to  tire  out  their  extravagant 
energies  and  the  splendid  joy  of  being  in 
the  swinging  enthusiasm  and  wild  ecstasy  of 
Gutter-life,  under  a  veil  of  stolid  indifference 
and  patient  apathy,  and  to  die  at  last  in  the 
full  hope  and  assurance  of  self-righteous  re- 
spectability, "  I  ain't  never  got  meself  into  no 
trouble." 

In  the  particular  experience  of  the  indi- 
vidual Gutter-baby,  the  crash  of  the  historic 
Fall  comes  with  appalling  violence  and  the 

i 


Gutter-Babies 

shock  of  a  great  physical  force,  in  one  un- 
guarded moment,  after  a  protracted  period  of 
successful  hide-and-seek  and  cunning  evasion. 

"Stop  where  yar!"  says  Gutter  Maternity, 
as  she  deposits  a  raw  teething  Beginning 
on  the  recently  scoured  doorstep,  barricades 
from  it  the  enticing  view  of  the  great  world 
beyond  by  a  chair  thrown  backwards  across 
the  threshold,  shakes  a  warning  red  finger 
wildly  overhead,  "Ef  I  ketches  yer!"  and 
deserts  her  off  spring  for  the  back-yard  and  the 
wash-tub. 

Left  to  his  own  devices,  the  solitary  Begin- 
ning passes  through  a  variety  of  the  element- 
ary stages  of  development. 

At  first,  the  only  real  fact  which  seems  to  be 
apparent  in  this  strange  new  world  of  matter 
is  the  consciousness  of  the  small  self-life  of 
its  own  personal  helplessness  and  isolation. 
There  is  no  one  to  notice  the  startled  intelli- 
gence of  two  blue  unseeing  eyes  as  they  swim, 
round  and  forlorn,  in  each  slowly  rising  pond 
of  tears,  or  the  lengthening  proportions  of  the 
upper  lip,  which  trembles  presently  into  a 
song  of  frightened  sweetness. 

2 


That 's  my  beauty  a  liften  up  'is  voice 


Guttergarten  and  the  Fall 

The  woman  in  the  back-yard  has  heard  it 
with  the  alert  ear  of  primitive  motherhood, 
but  remains  stubbornly  unsympathetic  to 
the  piteousness  of  the  appeal.  "That's  my 
beauty  a  liften'  up  'is  voice,"  she  calls  to  the 
next-door  back-yard. 

"Well  'e  ain't  come  to  much  'arm  while  'e 
can  make  that  shindy,  for  sure." 

By-and-by  the  Beginning  gradually  ceases 
to  cry  intelligently,  the  whimpering  sobs  con- 
tinue spasmodically  and  aimlessly,  for  al- 
ready the  busy  little  brain  speck  is  off  in  an- 
other direction.  Oblivion  has  gathered  the 
woman  into  the  unreal  ghostland  of  an  ele- 
mentary memory.  The  Beginning  has  for- 
gotten his  mother!  But  somewhere  still  in 
the  vague  unfocussed  atmosphere  of  the 
small  self's  environment,  that  warning  red 
finger  wags  a  nameless  threat.  And  on  the 
other  side  of  the  prostrated  chair  ring  the 
merry  music  of  human  voices  and  the  clap- 
ping of  nailed  boots  upon  the  stone  pave- 
ment, and  the  battle  of  hoofs  and  wheels  in 
that  ceaselessly  excited  world  beyond.  The 
whimpering  subsides  into  puzzled  contempla- 

3 


Gutter-Babies 

tion  and  silence  comes;  for  the  dawn  of  a  life- 
long wonder  is  slowly  breaking  over  the  stolid 
material  horizon  of  the  familiar  wooden  chair. 
The  day  is  surely  coming  when  the  Beginning, 
who  is  now  independent  of  human  compan- 
ionship, and  has  learnt  to  forget  his  mother  at 
intervals,  will  discover  the  old-world  game  of 
playing  at  chance  with  the  warning  red  finger 
of  fear.  The  crisis  arrives  when  the  Beginning 
knows  that  he  is  strong  enough  in  wind  and 
will  and  has  acquired  the  necessary  control 
over  his  little  body  to  enter  into  an  encounter 
with  the  wooden  chair.  The  conquest  of  the 
material  enemy  is  a  slow  and  tiresome  pro- 
cess, punctuated  by  many  persevering  fail- 
ures and  heroic  adventures.  Outside  in  the 
back-yard  the  white  clothes  are  bobbing  and 
wagging  in  long  irregular  lines  before  the 
majesty  of  the  morning  sun.  Long-limbed 
garments  are  swinging  in  fantastic  gestures 
and  making  eccentric  advances  towards  a  row 
of  babies'  pinafores,  tossed  and  tumbled  in 
the  tomboy  clutches  of  the  spring  winds. 

"Ain't  it  a  dy  for  dryin'?"  remarks  the 
woman. 

4 


Bump!  from  within,  and  a  shrill  wail  of 
anguish  summons  her  hurriedly  from  the 
back-yard. 

"My!  wotever's  'appened  now!"  And  the 
Beginning  is  promptly  gathered  up  in  two 
red  arms  and  crushed  with  loud  kisses  against  a 
warm  and  ample  bosom.  ' '  Was  it  the  naughty 
chair,  then,  didums?" 

Presently  a  solemn-eyed  Beginning,  with  a 
hard  lump,  smeared  with  butter,  on  his  puck- 
ered forehead,  watched  the  violent  readjust- 
ment of  the  chair  and  slowly  realised  the  force 
of  that  "Ef  I  ketches  yer!"  as  it  loomed  with 
a  tremendous  purpose  out  of  the  shadow  of 
the  mysteries  and  became  crystallized  in  the 
solid  world  of  facts.  Might  he  not  one  day 
change  places  with  the  chair,  and  the  wrath 
of  the  woman  be  directed  against  himself?  As 
the  Beginning  grasped  his  first  lesson  in  moral 
discipline,  one  deep  impression  was  received 
upon  the  blank  surface  of  his  young  mind, 
"Thou  shalt  not  be  found  out!"  And  thus 
he  made  his  first  step  in  the  life  of  decep- 
tion. 

One  day  the  woman  will  discover  that  the 
5 


Gutter-Babies 

chair  has  been  shifted  out  of  its  original  posi- 
tion. "'Oo  moved  this  cheer,  I  wonders!" 
But  by  this  time  the  Beginning  has  cut  several 
teeth,  bumped  himself  into  a  condition  of  in- 
vulnerable endurance,  and  learned  his  lesson 
intelligently.  He  is  no  longer  a  raw  and  im- 
mature Beginning.  Waving  a  fat  fist  that  has 
gained  much  in  weight  and  force  since  his  first 
introduction  to  the  chair,  he  succeeds  in  di- 
verting the  attention  of  the  woman  in  the 
direction  of  the  cat,  who,  having  picked  out 
a  little  circle  of  sunlight  for  her  own  use,  has 
settled  herself  inoffensively  within  it.  Held 
upwards  at  an  impossible  angle,  one  back  leg 
has  become  the  subject  of  her  meditations, 
and  will  probably  inspire  her  presently  to  at- 
tempt ablutionary  operations  upon  it. 

Captured  unawares,  the  unsuspecting  cat 
flies  into  space  at  the  red  hands'  pleasure. 
"Yer  nasty  beast!  take  that  and  that,  and 
now  'ook  it,  will  yer!" 

Meanwhile  the  Beginning  adds  another 
mental  note  to  his  observations.  To  deserved 
discipline  he  adds  substitution,  and  again  his 
little  brain  is  deeply  scarred  with  the  old  im- 

6 


Guttergarten  and  the  Fall 

pression,  as  it  were,  in  letters  of  fire,  "Thou 
shalt  not  be  found  out." 

And  as  yet  the  Beginning  still  ripens  in  the 
innocent  enjoyment  of  the  Gutter-baby's 
Eden.  He  has  never  been  naughty!  But  wait 
for  a  little  while  till  the  red  hands  are  busy 
rather  longer  than  usual  among  the  soapsuds 
in  the  back-yard,  until  the  chair  has  at  last 
yielded  to  superior  force,  till  mind  has  com- 
pletely subdued  matter,  and  the  little  Begin- 
ning is  lord  at  last  of  his  whole  correspond- 
ence. Wait  for  a  little  till  the  kitchen  is 
empty,  and  the  red  hands  are  lifted  appeal- 
ingly  in  piteous  dismay.  The  wooden  enemy 
is  kicked  aside,  and  the  cat  sleeps  securely  on 
the  tiled  roof  of  the  little  tool-house  next 
door,  but  the  erring  footsteps  of  the  Begin- 
ning are  printed  clearly  on  the  white  doorstep. 
And  soon  the  fate  of  the  Beginning  is  sealed 
for  ever. 

"Mrs.  Williams,  do  you  know  your  baby's 
in  the  road?" 

It  is  over  at  last.  In  the  family  bed  all  alone 
the  Beginning  comes  to  himself.  He  collects 
his  convulsed  and  stricken  intelligence  to 

7 


Gutter-Babies 

ponder  deeply  over  his  own  shaken  and  bat- 
tered little  body,  and  the  whole  tremendous 
problem  of  fallen  humanity,  and  the  mission  of 
evil  in  a  Gutter-baby  world.  He  hears  the 
cheerful  clatter  of  man's  boots  on  the  pave- 
ment below,  and  the  familiar  sound  of 
Daddy's  voice  calling  to  him.  But  he  must 
not  go.  For  everything  has  happened  since 
this  morning,  and  nothing  will  ever  be  the 
same  again.  This  is  the  Fall,  and  the  Begin- 
ning has  been  found  out. 

If  everyone  knew  and  remembered  this  epi- 
sode in  the  early  history  of  a  Gutter-baby, 
most  probably  the  curious  little  enigma  of  his 
subsequent  career  would  be  far  more  intelli- 
gible to  those  who  make  such  valiant  efforts 
and  long  so  greedily  to  read  its  secret.  It  is 
difficult  to  keep  in  correspondence  with  his 
violent  changes  of  pose  and  character,  and 
next  to  impossible  to  trace  through  them  the 
slender  and  elusive  chain  of  continuity  which 
so  marvellously  preserves  his  little  personality 
unique  and  individual,  but  he  never  forgets 
his  first  impression  of  morality,  or  seriously 
changes  his  mind  about  it.  Sin  is  always 

8 


Guttergarten  and  the  Fall 

represented  by  a  "copper"  and  handcuffs,  and 
in  every  real  storm  in  Guttergarten  the  worst 
sinner  is  the  person  who  interferes  or  blows 
the  police  whistle,  and  he  is  always  bitterly 
blamed  for  the  criminal's  misfortune.  In  Gut- 
tergarten the  only  virtuous  woman  is  she  who 
tells  her  business  to  nobody.  No  wonder, 
therefore,  that  the  Gutter-baby  who  tries  to 
be  good  keeps  himself  to  himself. , 


CHAPTER  II 

A  Paradise  Lost 

HUNT  STREET  was  comparatively 
quiet,  for  the  London  County  Coun- 
cil is  as  greedy  for  our  boys  and 
girls  as  the  seductive  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin. 
There  was  nobody  to  take  the  "Byby"  out 
walking  in  the  Gutter,  and  the  highway,  the 
playground  of  the  elders,  was  deserted.  One 
or  two  red-faced  women  shouted  at  each  other 
from  their  respective  doorways.  A  coster-boy 
had  upset  a  barrel  of  apples  from  his  truck 
and  swore  a  little  as  he  rescued  them  one  by 
one  from  muddy  graves,  wiping  them  carefully 
with  his  kerchief,  the  badge  of  his  office,  and 
as  sacred  to  the  profession  as  the  barrister's 
wig,  or  the  physician's  thermometer.  Sud- 
denly from  No.  6,  top  front,  came  the  cry  of  a 
little  child.  The  small  room  was  full  of  women, 
beery  and  emotional,  with  moist,  sympathetic 
eyes.  On  the  bed  a  three-days-old  infant  was 
dying  with  blue  lips  and  convulsed  limbs.  % 

10 


A  Paradise  Lost 

Someone  said,  "Go  for  the  Priest!"  And 
the  rest  of  us  kept  watch  silently.  I  noticed 
a  faint  purple  mark  on  the  left  temple  of  the 
tiny  upturned  face.  The  fire  had  been  starved 
out,  and  the  useless  steam  kettle  pointed  out 
a  long  attenuated  finger  of  derision.  A  piece 
of  stout  paper  with  a  little  rent  in  it  was 
pinned  across  the  broken  window.  In  the 
corner  was  a  odd-shaped  bundle  wrapped  in 
a  plaid  shawl.  Then  the  Priest  came. 

"Name  this  child." 

At  this  point  the  bundle  in  the  corner  under 
the  plaid  came  to  life. 

"Sit  quiet,  Johnny  William!"  said  a  re- 
proving voice  from  one  of  the  women. 

"John  William!"  repeated  the  Priest 
gravely. 

Then  something  happened  in  the  little  room, 
and  we  knew  that  the  newly  enlisted  soldier 
had  received  his  orders  for  foreign  service. 

The  mother  began  to  cry  hysterically  and 
the  women  shuffled  clumsily  away. 

"Yer  done  'im  wrong,  Father!"  said  one 
rough  mourner  as  she  passed;  "that's  the 
little  bloke's  nime!" 

ii 


Gutter-Babies 

From  its  corner  the  plaid  bundle  was 
observant.  It  had  a  very  big  head  with  queer 
twisted  features  and  shrewd  round  eyes,  legs 
too,  but  they  were  weakly  things,  and  not 
much  to  be  trusted,  and  It  did  not  often  stand 
upright.  It  did  not  now,  but  came  out  of  Its 
covered  retreat  in  a  sitting  posture,  with  odd 
uncertain  movements,  steered  by  a  pair  of 
energetic  heels.  There  was  nothing  either 
lovely  or  childish  in  the  elfin  creature,  —  yet 
something  must  be  said. 

For  a  moment  the  Priest  and  the  lay 
bundle  looked  at  each  other,  then  It  under- 
stood. 

"Wot  did  yer  do  it  fer,  Guvner?  It's  this 
man's  nime!" 

"Child!"  said  the  Priest  gently,  "the  little 
one  is  dead!"  To  him  it  seemed  the  way  out 
of  the  difficulty. 

Johnny  William  peered  up  through  the 
slit  in  the  paper  blind,  at  the  pitiless  grey 
sky,  and  smothered  a  storm  of  passion  in  the 
friendly  plaid. 

"Then  Vs  doned  me,  the  bloomin'  tike!" 
he  said  huskily. 

12 


A  Paradise  Lost 

We  were  all  a  little  shocked.  For  already 
the  sanctity  of  death  had  shrouded  the  still 
small  body,  and  we  were  too  old  to  know  that 
to  a  baby  with  crooked  legs  the  passing  of  a 
three-days'-wonder  is  nothing  at  all  com- 
pared with  a  Paradise  lost! 

The  plaid  bundle,  surprising  everybody 
and  itself  most,  grew  up  one  day,  straight 
and  strong,  if  a  little  eccentric,  and  became 
my  Johnny. 

But  from  some  deep  subconscious  pocket  of 
the  memory  I  still  believe  that  little  incident 
embitters  his  outlook  on  life,  and  suggests  the 
phantasy  that  every  living  thing  that  looks 
at  him  is  his  natural  enemy,  until  it  has  proved 
itself  a  friend. 


CHAPTER  III 

The  Philosophy  of  the  Gutter 

I  SUPPOSE  it  is  because  Nature  dazzles 
us  with  such  an  exuberance  of  wealth 
overhead  that  there  is  so  little  time  to 
look  for  her  windfalls.    Some  day  perhaps 
people  will  grow  tired  of  star-gazing  and  will 
turn  their  eyes  to  the  Gutter;  then  they  will 
find  the  Gutter-babies,  and  many  wonderful 
things. 

A  little  way  out  on  the  map  of  life,  every 
pilgrim  from  his  own  mountain  of  myrrh 
must  make  his  venture;  some  of  us  have  a 
natural  tendency  to  the  Gutter.  It  is  much 
better  than  going  to  the  wall.  No  psycholo- 
gist could  possibly  find  a  more  convenient 
observatory,  for  nowhere  else  is  human  cor- 
respondence so  abruptly  gracious  and  inti- 
mate. Here  the  dirtiest  and  most  diminu- 
tive of  Gutter  atoms  crawl  safely  through  the 
elementary  stages  of  infancy  into  precocious 
adolescence,  far  from  the  battle  of  hoofs  and 

14 


The  Philosophy  of  the  Gutter 

wheels  and  the  congested  struggle  of  the  high- 
way. For  the  Gutter  is  the  nursery  of  the 
poor. 

Here,  too,  are  foreigners  among  the  natives, 
stars  who  have  dropped  out  of  an  unknown 
and  uncharted  meridian,  with  queer  and 
often  pathetic  biographies  of  their  own,  which 
they  will  tell,  but  not  at  all  times  or  to  all 
enquirers. 

Once  I  met  a  youthful  philosopher  in  the 
flattest  pose  possible  to  rotund  humanity, 
with  pink  heels  kicking  at  vacuity  and  a 
cunning  nose  levelled  to  the  grating  of  a  drain. 

It  was  my  Johnny. 

"Do  you  like  smelling  drains,  Johnny?'* 

He  lifted  a  somewhat  apoplectic  counte- 
nance to  explain. 

"  It  ain't  the  bloomin'  drain  what  matters, 
it's  what  comes  out  of  its  bloody  inside! 
Once  my  Rosie,  her  finded  a  fadger  here." 
Johnny  smiled  a  great,  blissful,  expectant 
smile.  "  I  'm  lookin*  for  a  dear  little  shiner!" 
he  said. 

"We  will  play  that  game  together,  Johnny." 

So  we  did,  he  and  I,  and  never  got  tired  of  it. 
15 


Gutter-Babies 

I  was  walking  with  a  very  small  person; 
she  was  dressed  in  a  tumbled  cotton  frock 
and  a  sunbonnet  with  one  string.  Otherwise 
she  was  quite  curiously  unlike  the  local  lady. 
As  we  proceeded,  the  small  person  became 
confidential.  Her  name  was  Blanchie,  and 
Johnny  claimed  her  as  a  relative  because  she 
was  brought  up  by  his  aunt  who  took  in 
Gutter-babies  to  mind,  and  she  called 
Johnny's  twin  cousins,  Alf  and  Earn,  her 
brothers.  But  many  streets  and  many  gut- 
ters divided  them  from  Special  Johnny,  and 
if  it  had  not  been  for  the  call  of  the  blood  it  is 
doubtful  if  the  authorities  would  even  have 
permitted  them  to  play  together. 

For  the  Twins'  Dad  was  a  gentleman  all  the 
week,  and  the  little  boys  had  their  hair 
curled  and  wore  velveteen  on  Sundays.  The 
steps  into  society  are  frequently  quite  as 
abrupt  in  the  Gutter-world,  but  Blanchie 
was  the  secret  of  this  family  success. 

She  was  a  Gutter-baby  Wonder. 

All  day  long  she  said  her  lessons  and  sucked 
sweets  surreptitiously  in  the  big  school  of  the 
Gutter-babies,  ate  a  scrappy  fish  dinner  on 

16 


The  Philosophy  of  the  Gutter 

her  way  out  to  play,  just  like  the  normal 
Gutter-baby,  and  romped  and  fought  and 
wept  through  Gutter-life,  the  merriest  and 
most  mischievous  of  the  little  wild  people, 
the  spoilt  darling  of  our  set. 

This  was  the  Blanchie  that  we  knew  best, 
a  wistful,  precocious,  sharp-witted  creature, 
with  whom  always  and  everywhere  flowed 
the  warm  and  glowing  atmosphere  of  the 
guardian  Spirit,  called  out  of  his  Art  Heaven 
to  mind  this  wayward  nursling  of  Genius 
through  her  extraordinary  and  very  earthly 
career. 

But  when  her  playmates  were  cuddled 
together  dreaming,  with  their  restless  limbs 
and  chattering  tongues  as  still  as  they  ever 
are  (for  every  real  Gutter-baby  tosses  and 
moans  in  his  sleep),  while  Johnny  lay  on  his 
back  snoring,  and  the  Twins  slept  sweetly  in 
pink  flannelette,  with  their  golden  hair 
securely  fastened  up  in  pins,  —  all  night  long 
before  two  "Houses"  a  very  absurdly  rosy 
and  professionally  smiling  Blanchie  in  a  short 
skirt  tripped  about  on  the  points  of  satin 
slippers,  singing  loudly  through  her  nose,  as 


Gutter-Babies 

she  held  sway  over  a  troupe  of  overgrown 
and  clumsy  fairies  in  an  obscurely  suburban 
music-hall.  The  presence  of  the  Guardian, 
paling  and  sick  at  this  sordid  insult  to  his 
art,  yet  more  brilliant  than  the  blinding  lime- 
light, wrapped  itself  about  her  innocence,  so 
that  the  cold  world,  which  shuts  its  heart 
against  Gutter-babies,  found  a  tender  thought 
for  the  Art-nursling,  and  someone  would  re- 
member his  own  spoilt  darling  asleep  on  a 
soft  pillow,  and  someone  else  would  offer  to 
see  her  safely  across  the  road  to  the  station. 
A  tiny  fist  it  was  that  he  held,  gripping  fast 
a  bulky  treasure  tucked  away  inside  a  cotton 
glove  —  the  three  pennies  for  her  return  fare 
to  Shepherd's  Bush. 

But  the  small  person  was  talking  to  me. 

"I  shan't  do  no  acting  when  I'm  big,  you 
know,  there  won't  be  time." 

I  wondered  why,  and  was  presently  in- 
formed with  due  solemnity. 

"I'm  a  scholar;  I'm  sharp  at  my  lessons; 
they  think  they  learned  me  to  read  at  schule, 
but  they  never.  I  knew  my  letters  off  the 
'buses  before  I  could  walk." 

18 


The  Philosophy  of  the  Gutter 

I  dropped  the  foolish  air  of  patronage  which 
one  sometimes  assumes  for  the  benefit  of 
Gutter-babies  who  require  cultivating,  and 
became  respectful. 

"Then  I  suppose  you  intend  to  be  a 
teacher?" 

"No,  I'll  have  a  schule;  I'll  be  guveness!" 

Presently  she  asked  cheerfully,  "  What  did 
you  take  up  with  me  for?" 

I  told  her  as  well  as  I  could,  and  then  made 
an  attempt  to  reply  to  a  volley  of  questions. 

"It's  good  to  ask  'em,  ain't  it?" 

I  assented  agreeably,  supposing  it  to  be  at 
least  the  best  way  to  learn  the  answer,  any- 
way. 

"Some  don't  seem  to  think  so,  but  I  reck- 
ons you  can  find  out  a  lot  this  way,  if  you 
don't  ask  silly  ones  and  put  people  off  you." 

One  great  fear  haunts  and  threatens  the 
"scholar's"  brilliant  future.  It  is  that  the 
terrible  medical  certificate  may  stop  her 
"schulinV  It  does  happen  sometimes  to 
"awful  sharp  kids."  Some  day  I  suppose  the 
Art-nursling  will  arrive  at  independence  and 
will  go  away  with  her  books,  shaking  off  the 

19 


.1 

Gutter-Babies 

foster  family  (who  will  then  cease  to  appear 
in  velveteen  on  Sundays)  and  leaving  behind 
her  a  little  pair  of  worn-out  dancing-shoes 
with  blunted  toes. 

Earn  was  not  really  a  disagreeable  little 
boy,  in  spite  of  his  unfortunate  weakness  for 
curls  and  velveteen.  He  had  a  magnificent 
gift  of  lying,  and  a  clinging  affection  for  the 
environment  of  Johnny.  At  times  it  seemed 
as  if  he  might  be  quite  one  of  us  some  day. 
His  mother  was  very  proud  of  having  reared 
him  from  seven  months,  and  to  this  interest- 
ing fact  in  his  early  history  she  attributed  all 
his  many  feelings  and  eccentricities.  After 
administering  a  vigorous  chastisement  she 
would  console  herself  with  the  reflection, 
"There,  what  can  you  expect  of  a  seven- 
months!" 

She  sent  him  to  me  the  other  day,  seriously 
alarmed  at  his  powers  of  mendacity,  which 
were  indeed  remarkable,  even  for  a  Gutter- 
baby. 

"The  lyin*  little  'ound,"  she  introduced 
him.  "  I  'm  sure  me  and  his  Dad,  no  one  can't 
say  as  'ow  we  don't  keep  our  children  respect- 

20 


The  Philosophy  of  the  Gutter 

able,  and  I  doos  'is  'air  up  every  night,  I  do, 
and  where  'e  learns  it  I  can't  think.  It  all 
comes  of  takin'  other  people's  to  mind.  They 
ain't  like  yer  own.  But  there,"  she  finished, 
with  a  shrewd  wink  at  me  over  the  golden 
head  of  the  weeping  Earn,  "what  can  you 
expect!" 

We  heard  her  patiently,  but  when  she  had 
gone  we  sat  far  into  the  tea-hour  together, 
his  soft  confiding  voice  charming  away  the 
twilight.  Both  of  us  quite  forgot  why  he  had 
come,  forgot  that  he  was  a  mean  little  snob 
who  told  lies,  a  Gutter-weakling  with  tangled 
curls  and  —  the  Gutter-babies'  chief  abhor- 
rence —  spotless  linen !  These  narrow  firelit 
walls,  the  hard  edges  of  our  little  world,  sur- 
rendered to  a  fairy  kingdom  of  limitless  dimen- 
sions. Spellbound  we  followed  the  thread  of 
his  expert  imagination  through  a  narrative, 
if  slightly  incoherent  and  vaguely  suggestive, 
yet  sufficiently  graceful  not  to  shame  the 
great  Grimms  themselves. 

Then,  a  sudden  hesitation,  with  no  hope  of 
continuation  in  our  next,  and  no  persuasion 
could  drag  from  the  orator  anything  but  the 

21 


Gutter-Babies 

most  trivial  conversation.  It  was  the  only 
glimpse  I  had  into  that  vivid  and  fertile 
mental  atmosphere.  For  the  sickly,  freakish 
energy  of  the  "seven-months"  was  easily 
exhausted  and  his  time  with  us  was  brief. 
But  a  few  days  after  our  interview  he  was 
observed  playing  with  some  other  children 
at  a  school-treat  on  the  shore  at  Bognor. 
A  basket  with  the  usual  Gutter-baby  trea- 
sures —  broken  crockery,  presents  for  loved 
ones  at  home,  and  the  diminishing  store  of 
sticky  pennies  —  slipped  into  the  waves 
splashing  stormily  at  high  tide  in  a  strong 
breeze. 

The  small  group  stared  dismally  at  the 
tragedy,  but  the  little  despised  boy  in  his 
absurd  tunic,  with  his  damp  curls  tortured 
by  the  wind,  singing  to  a  trail  of  seaweed  all 
by  himself  in  his  dreamy  and  vacant  way, 
suddenly  became  the  hero  of  the  occasion, 
and  waded  out  waist  deep  among  the  breakers 
to  recover  the  precious  articles. 

His  dripping  and  triumphant  return,  as  he 
handed  the  wreckage  to  its  weeping  owner, 
was  greeted  by  an  indignant  welcome  from 

22 


The  Philosophy  of  the  Gutter 

the  presiding  Sister,  in  whose  judgment  the 
drenched  and  forlorn  condition  of  his  little 
person  was  the  most  serious  dilemma. 

It  was  not  worth  the  risk  of  being  washed 
out  to  sea,  or  the  chance  of  rheumatic  fever, 
or  the  spoiling  of  his  velveteens. 

If  his  Mother  had  been  there  she  would 
certainly  have  added  —  "There,  what  can 
you  expect  of  a  seven-months!" 

But  we  knew  better. 

"I  was  play  in'  it  was  a  baby,"  whispered 
Earn;  "I  'card  it  cry." 

And  what  is  to  come  of  it  all?  Will  the 
London  County  Council  be  equal  to  the 
educational  problem?  Or  must  Philosopher, 
Scholar,  Romanticist,  smother  in  the  Gutter 
that  gave  them  birth? 


CHAPTER  IV 

The  Pedigree  of  Johnny 

BUT  it  is  time  for  us  to  consider  what 
freak  of  fortune  stranded  my  Johnny 
in  the  Gutter  with  the  perpetual  pro- 
blem whence  and  whither. 

Let  me  introduce  you  to  Johnny's  parents. 

"When  are  yer  cumin'  to  make  a  'ome  for 
our  Johnny?" 

The  Boy  'Enery  put  his  shy  question  lean- 
ing against  the  dusty  creeper  that  crawled 
over  Hearn's  cottage,  with  his  thin  profile 
turned  towards  the  dear  familiar  picture  of 
the  little  Mother,  framed  in  the  evening  glow. 
The  wind  teased  her  heavily  braided  hair 
above  the  tanned  forehead.  The  orange- 
patterned  shawl  was  gathered  into  a  bundle 
in  her  arms,  and  from  its  daring  folds  the 
child  with  his  own  tired  smile,  pathetic  in  its 
utter  absence  of  gaiety,  looked  out  at  him. 
Behind  the  old  caravan  in  the  Gipsies'  Yard, 
the  sun  went  slowly  down.  Johnny's  home 

24 


The  Pedigree  of  Johnny- 
had  long  been  a  forbidden  subject,  but  to- 
night something  in  the  Boy's  weary  voice 
made  the  little  Mother's  answer  tender. 

"When  I  be  free,"  she  said,  and  looked  away 
into  the  dream  of  the  golden  sunset.  Then 
she  set  down  the  child,  who  clung  to  her  skirts 
with  the  waywardness  of  three  petted  years. 

"Johnny  go  to  Dad!"  she  urged. 

The  Boy  held  out  his  arms. 
'  "Yus,  come  to  Dad  and  'ave  a  nice  ride!" 

He  hoisted  the  child  on  to  his  stooping 
shoulders  where  the  little  creature  sat  crow- 
ing in  nervous  joy. 

"Waal,  I'll  be  passin*  in  the  mornin'. 
Tooraloo!" 

"Tooraloo!"  echoed  the  little  Mother,  and 
slipped  into  the  shadows  behind  the  door  where 
the  ancient  scion  of  the  House  of  Hearn  sat 
huddled  up  before  the  fire,  drinking  away  the 
twilight  of  his  years  in  querulous  impotence. 
His  wrinkled  and  unpleasing  physiognomy, 
tanned  and  seamed  as  an  old  leather  boot, 
leered  out  at  her  from  the  gloom,  with  eyes 
that  glowed  like  two  living  coals  in  a  jealous 
flame. 

25 


Gutter-Babies 

"Were  that  the  Boy  'Enery?"  he  asked. 

"Yus,  it  were." 

"Oh,  mebbe  'e  thinks  it's  long  to  wait!  an 
mebbe  'e's  witin'  for  the  devil  to  die." 

He  put  down  his  mug,  spat  viciously  into 
the  glowing  embers  and  lay  back  in  a  drunken 
slumber.  For  a  long  time  the  little  Mother 
sat  on  among  the  shadows  with  her  chin 
cradled  in  one  slender  brown  hand,  until  the 
lights  sprang  up  one  by  one  in  the  night 
outside  and  the  wind  blew  in  sharply.  Then 
she  bolted  the  door  and  carried  a  spluttering 
candle  to  the  foot  of  the  ladder  which  led  to 
her  own  little  attic  in  the  leaky  roof.  There 
she  paused,  swaying  in  the  sudden  grip  of  a 
mighty  temptation. 

"What  if  I  did  leave  'im!  Gawd  in  'Eaven, 
what  if  I  did?" 

The  Boy  had  been  hers  ever  since  the  day 
when  old  Hearn's  tales  of  adventure  before 
the  settlement  in  the  Gipsies'  Yard  first 
broke  into  the  monotony  of  his  cheerless 
school  days.  She  had  been  his  Queen  in  all 
that  stolen  playtime,  when  they  sat  together 
on  the  old  caravan  and  took  strange  journeys, 

26 


The  Pedigree  of  Johnny 

guided  by  her  tireless  imagination,  into  a 
wonderland  of  their  own,  with  the  magic 
password,  "Let's  pretend." 

But  the  gipsy  folk  have  queer  ways  and 
customs  of  their  own,  and  Hearn's  daughter 
would  have  brought  down  all  the  curses  of 
her  race  if  she  had  left  her  father's  roof  with 
a  stranger.  The  Boy  had  long  realized  the 
hopelessness  of  waging  war  against  a  super- 
stition which  he  had  almost  learnt  to  respect, 
and  accepted  the  position  with  more  or  less 
resignation.  Every  night  he  stopped  at 
Hearn's  cottage  and  carried  Johnny  away  to 
a  little  damp  underground  room,  which  he 
rented  from  his  widowed  mother,  with  un- 
certain meals  thrown  in,  for  half  his  weekly 
wages  earned  working  overtime  at  the  print- 
ing factory;  and  every  morning  he  brought 
the  child  back  and  left  him  for  the  day  at 
Hearn's  cottage.  On  Sundays  and  holidays 
they  walked  out  together,  taking  it  in  turns 
to  carry  Johnny,  who  was  backward  with  his 
legs,  and  the  smell  of  the  green  things  in  the 
Park  revived  the  spring  in  their  worn-out 
young  hearts.  And  still  old  Hearn  put  off 

27 


Gutter-Babies 

the  day  when  he  should  crawl  feebly  out  to 
the  steps  of  the  old  caravan  and  lie  down  there 
with  his  fathers  under  the  wide  quiet  sky. 
Still  the  pathos  of  this  odd  romance  worried 
the  neighbours,  and  still  Johnny  was  a  bird 
of  passage. 

But  when  Hearn's  daughter  first  became 
the  little  Mother,  a  great  conflict  of  emotions 
began  in  her  breast,  between  the  newly- 
awakened  fierce  excitement  of  maternity 
and  the  long  chain  of  hereditary  instincts 
which  bound  her  in  the  coils  of  conven- 
tion. To-night  as  she  stood  with  the  candle- 
light leaping  among  the  shadows  on  the 
wall  behind  her,  the  struggle  had  reached  a 
crisis. 

The  Boy  ambled  sideways  out  of  the 
Gipsies'  Yard,  shying  nervously  at  his  own 
shadow  and  nearly  unseating  his  small  rider, 
who  shouted  with  gleeful  panic,  and  met  three 
pals  outside  the  "Blue  Star." 

"Weer  tu?"  they  greeted  his  eccentric 
advance. 

"  'ome ! "  said  the  Boy.  He  was  not  a  wordy 
man,  and  had  lost  wind. 

28 


The  Pedigree  of  Johnny 

"Come  and  'ave  a  pot  of  six  fust,  then!" 
They  pressed  a  cheery  invitation. 

The  Boy  hesitated;  it  was  not  much  like 
his  usual  habits,  he  was  known  as  one  that 
"kep  'isself  to  'isself."  But  to-night  the 
atmosphere  was  unusual,  as  though  some 
volcanic  disturbance  had  raised  the  crust  of 
hell  itself. 

He  lifted  down  the  child,  already  wearying 
of  his  high  seat,  and  fidgetting  fretfully. 

"Run  'ome  to  Mumma,  Johnny!"  he  said, 
and  watched  the  little  creature  wriggle  down 
its  puckered  garments  and  lurch  off  obediently 
on  ricketty  legs.  Round  the  corner  at  that 
moment  came  just  such  a  crowd  as  the  Gutter- 
baby  loves.  There  was  a  policeman,  and  a 
young  woman,  barearmed  and  excited,  and  a 
forlornly  empty  perambulator,  and  all  round 
and  in  front  and  in  the  rear  a  voluble  mass  of 
humanity.  The  young  woman,  poor  thing, 
was  hoping  for  a  little  home  of  her  own  soon, 
and  had  bought  the  vehicle  wonderfully  cheap 
from  the  man  who  stole  it,  and  the  baby  was 
still  only  a  lovely  dream.  But  all  the  elements 
of  a  crime  were  there,  so  oddly  attractive  to 

29 


Gutter-Babies 

the' young  in  every  walk  of  life.  On  swept 
the  procession,  and  with  it  poor  bewildered 
Johnny,  caught  in  its  web.  Up  one  street  and 
down  another, —  it  was  not  far  to  the  police 
station,  —  but  Johnny  had  never  been  out 
before  alone  and  was  soon  hopelessly  lost. 
Presently  the  policeman  found  him  crumpled 
up  "in  the  gutter,  crying  like  a  homeless 
kitten. 

"Why,  bless  me  if  this  ain't  'Earn's  brat!" 
he  said;  and  picking  him  up  transported  him 
to  the  Gipsies'  Yard. 

Two  hours  later,  the  Boy,  with  a  bad  head- 
ache and  a  bad  temper,  lurched  down  the 
area  steps  with  an  ugly  curse  and  found  the 
little  Mother  in  his  room.  Her  face  was  very 
pale  in  the  candlelight ;  she  held  out  her  arms 
with  a  quiet  smile,  and  a  shy  tremor  shook 
her  voice. 

"  I  Ve  come  to  yer  at  last,  'Enery ! "  Then, 
with  her  natural  alertness  of  perception,  she 
cried  out  with  a  bitter  sense  of  wrong  as  into 
the  Boy's  vacant  stare  there  crept  slowly  the 
dawn  of  a  steely  horror.  "It  were  fer  our 
Johnny's  sake  an*  'e  's  gone!" 

30 


The  Pedigree  of  Johnny 

Down  went  the  little  Mother's  proud  head 
to  hide  her  shame  in  an  agony  of  control. 
The  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  ticked  away 
three  long  hours,  while  the  little  Mother  sat 
silently  shivering  under  her  curse,  and  the 
Boy's  love  for  her  seemed  to  grow  cold  in  a 
nightmare  of  superstition.  Morning  came 
and  he  went  out  fasting  —  but  returned  soon 
after,  sick  and  giddy,  with  his  arm  slung  in  a 
crimson  bandage;  —  there  had  been  an  acci- 
dent at  the  factory  and  he  had  smashed  his 
hand.  The  Gipsy's  curse  was  developing.  It 
was  almost  a  relief  to  find  the  room  empty  as 
it  reeled  before  his  dizzy  gaze.  But  he  could 
not  rest,  and  very  soon  the  old  resistless  chain 
of  habit  led  his  footsteps  to  the  Gipsy  Settle- 
ment. 

In  the  sunlit  morning,  the  old  caravan  stood 
silhouetted  against  a  blue  background,  and 
between  the  huge  wheels  that  had  made  their 
last  journey  peeped  the  happy  smile  of  a 
child  at  play,  careless  of  the  great  tragedy  of 
life  wearing  itself  out  so  near.  On  the  steps 
crouched  the  little  Mother,  sweetly  fragile 
after  the  night  of  terror,  and  pillowed  on  her 


Gutter-Babies 

bosom  was  a  grey  face  turned  upward  to  the 
wide  sky  where  a  bird  was  singing  somewhere 
in  the  clouds.  The  girl  bent  her  ear  to  catch 
the  last  scarcely  articulate  words  — 

41  Thought  'er'd  gone  an*  left  me  and  I 
cursed  she  —  it  must  'a'  bin  fancy!" 

There  was  a  long  shiver,  and  as  Hearn's 
daughter  shut  out  the  '  world  from  that 
idiot  stare  and  tied  a  yellow  handkerchief 
round  the  fallen  jaw,  she  told  her  lie  to  the 
dead. 

Not  many  days  later,  as  the  Boy  wheeled 
out  of  the  Gipsies'  Yard  a  truck  piled  high 
with  somebody's  little  home,  on  the  top  of 
which  sat  a  dark-eyed  baby  with  a  cr£pe  bow 
under  his  chin,  while  the  little  Mother  fol- 
lowed behind  with  her  arms  full,  —  he  nearly 
bowled  over  one  of  his  mates. 

"Hullo,"  said  the  latter;  '"card  the  news? 
The  guvner  's  pide  yer  'alf-time  an 's  keepin* 
yer  plice!" 

Even  an  employer  knows  when  it  is  cau- 
tious to  appear  generous.  But  this  pair  were 
too  happy  to  be  hypercritical.  For  them  the 
sweat  of  many  brows  and  the  groan  of  life's 

32 


The  Pedigree  of  Johnny 

'machinery  were  less  real  than  the  Eden  of 
myth  which  had  flung  wide  its  gates  and 
filled  the  world.  And  underneath  the  green 
promise  of  this  gentle  springtide  the  Gipsy's 
curse  slept  in  six  foot  of  Hanwell  loam. 


CHAPTER  V 

Walking  Out  with  Special  Johnny 

IT  was  towards  the  close  of  his  seventh 
winter  that  Johnny  and  I  began  to  walk 
out.  Amid  the  changing  moods  of  the 
month  of  Mary  the  frost-nipped  earth  was 
cheered  suddenly  by  a  joyous  burst  of  sun- 
shine. Away  in  the  country  the  song-birds 
were  practising,  and  the  tender  spring  blos- 
soms lifting  up  full  hearts.  Here,  outside 
my  window,  a  single  hawthorn  tree,  budding 
cautiously,  tempted  a  Gutter-boy  to  revert 
to  the  arboreal  habits  of  some  ape-like  pro- 
genitor; and  who  shall  say  what  sleeping 
memories  of  a  prehistoric  springtide  inspired 
his  first  love-song? 

"  Come  out,  come  out,  the  sun  is  shining  bright, 
So  git  yer  'at  an'  jacket  on, 
Tell  yer  mother  yer  won't  be  long, 
An'  come  an'  kiss  yer  Johnny  roun*  the  corner." 

A  strip  of  narrow  sunlit  street  on  a  holiday 
afternoon  with  one  vivid  spot  of  colour,  green 

34 


Walking  Out  with  Special  Johnny 

and  orange,  as  a  small  bantam  cock  picks 
its  way  carefully  from  one  side  to  the  other. 
Two  rows  of  lodging-houses  grim  and  high, 
a  baby  or  two,  sprawling  helpless  in  innocent 
finery,  a  few  loiterers,  and  suddenly  a  barrel 
organ  jerking  out  a  wheezy  tune.  In  a  second 
the  lazy  scene  is  a  whirlwind  of  mad  energy, 
a  tangle  of  bright  bows  and  bobbing  feathers. 
Heavy  women  clumsily  draped  in  draggled 
skirts  set  to  shirt-sleeved,  hobnail-booted 
partners  with  an  amazing  dignity  of  poise 
and  vivacity  of  twinkling  feet.  Tiny  bare- 
headed and  breathless  dancers  lend  to  the 
revelry  a  poetry  of  movement  in  a  thousand 
graceful  antics  and  dainty  frolics,  pointing 
here  and  there,  and  laying  about  them  not  a 
few  coquettish  cuffs  as  a  string  of  rough  lads 
bear  down  upon  them  furiously,  breaking 
their  lines.  The  excitement  increases,  faster 
fly  the  giddy  figures,  and  shriller  peal  the 
hysterical  giggles  and  snatches  of  popular 
melodies.  A  girl  has  cut  down  a  clothes-line 
in  somebody's  back-yard,  and  throws  it  with 
shrieking  triumph  to  her  mates,  clinging  to 
her  skirts  and  skipping  high  with  squeals  of 

35 


Gutter-Babies 

panic  as  the  huge  rope  whistles  through  the 
air. 

Suddenly  the  doors  of  a  public  house  swing 
open  violently,  and  two  men  locked  together 
hurl  themselves  upon  the  careless  scene.  The 
performers  scatter  screaming,  and  then  close 
up  in  a  gaping,  struggling  crowd.  Someone 
makes  a  feeble  attempt  to  come  between  the 
brawlers.  Hands  off!  It  is  a  shame  to  spoil 
sport.  One  man  is  down ;  there  is  a  sickening 
thud  and  a  heavy  silence.  He  must  be  held 
up  with  dizzy  head  and  bleeding  face  and 
thrown  back  at  his  opponent.  But  there  is  a 
piercing  cry  of  "Father  —  it's  my  father," 
as  one  of  the  happy  little  dancers  of  a  minute 
before  springs  into  the  heart  of  the  struggle, 
and  flies  at  the  throat  of  the  conqueror  like  a 
wild  cat.  The  man  shakes  her  off  and  flings 
her  back  into  the  arms  of  the  eager  crowd 
who  hold  her  with  difficulty.  Two  women  are 
grappling  with  the  men  now.  This  way  and 
that  way  the  crowd  heaves,  —  but  what  is 
the  matter?  The  organ-grinder  has  long  ago 
made  his  escape  —  this  is  not  the  kind  of 
scene  it  is  prudent  for  him  to  figure  in ;  there 

36 


Walking  Out  with  Special  Johnny 

are  more  rules  of  the  road  than  the  wary 
motorist  wots  of.  Already  a  busy  knot  of 
friends  are  assisting  the  combatants,  one  of 
them  strangely  limp  and  unresisting,  into  the 
dark  refuge  of  opposite  doorways,  and  be- 
tween them  winds  a  ribbon  of  dusty  pave- 
ment, where  a  blue-clad,  helmetted  figure 
stands  solemn  and  impassive,  and  a  little  ban- 
tam cock  is  cunningly  considering  if  it  is 
possible  to  make  the  return  journey  with 
safety. 

Into  the  foreground  of  this  empty  picture 
Johnny  dropped  suddenly  from  the  heart  of 
the  may-tree,  his  countenance  ruddy  as  the 
spray  of  blushing  blossom  that  fell  with  him. 

"Weren't  it  jest  grand!"  he  said;  and, 
adding  regretfully,  "It  ain't  no  use  witin* 
'ere;  weer  shall  us  go?"  he  tucked  a  grimy 
companionable  hand  in  mine  and  led  me  out. 

The  Spirit  of  the  Exodus  was  in  the  air. 
Even  Gutterland  cannot  altogether  escape 
the  Zeitgeist,  which  at  intervals  sweeps  away 
the  faithful  and  leaves  London  in  the  hands  of 
the  tourist  and  stranger.  Here  the  Exodus 
begins  with  a  certain  class  of  refined  ladies 

37 


Gutter-Babies 

devoted  to  the  single  life  whom  we  call 
"chars." 

"Hi  've  got  er  nice  job,"  they  speak  one  to 
another,  in  filing  solemnly  away  to  the  de- 
serted homes  of  aristocracy,  and  followed 
generally,  in  case  it  is  lonesome  at  night,  by 
somebody  else's  meek  little  girl  of  exceeding 
tender  years,  who  will  protect  them  from 
ghostly  terrors,  and  "fetch  hin  hall  the 
'errings!" 

"Yus,  not  'arf  I  'avn't,  —  a  'ouse  in  Noll- 
ing  Park  for  six  blooming  weeks  han  hall 
foun'!" 

On  the  other  side  of  the  curtain  which  the 
wind  is  blowing  across  that  upper  window  on 
your  left,  there  is  another  kind  of  Exodus 
going  on.  I  stood  there  just  now,  within 
earshot  of  the  voices  of  the  holiday  keepers 
and  the  shriek  of  the  train  that  is  bearing 
them  on  their  careless  way,  and  drew  my 
handkerchief  across  a  woman's  dying  face, 
to  keep  away  the  flies  from  the  poor  mouth 
that  will  never  close  again.  That  body  was 
sweating  at  the  laundry  yesterday,  working 
barearmed  in  the  wash-house,  but  already 

38 


Walking  Out  with  Special  Johnny 

the  mind  has  gone  out  into  the  unknowable, 
and  soon,  missing  its  companion,  will  come 
back  to  fetch  away  the  soul. 

Towards  a  scuffling  knot  of  humanity  at 
the  electric  tram  terminus  Johnny  hurried 
me  eagerly. 

"Don't  it  jes'  give  yer  the  gut-ache?"  he 
said,  straining  every  nerve.  "But  cheer  up, 
we're  most  nearly  there!" 

As  we  stood  wedged  in  the  jostling,  per- 
spiring, and  impertinently  facetious  crowd, 
he  betrayed  a  little  anxiety. 

"Don't  cher  lose  me,  —  'old  my  belly- 
band." 

I  obeyed  his  instructions,  and  at  the  same 
time  a  yellow  apparition  in  the  distance  in- 
spired us  all  to  renewed  struggles. 

A  fat  shopwalker,  with  a  large  pink  button- 
hole, waved  Johnny  gracefully  aside  to  make 
way  for  a  pale-faced  girl,  with  a  black  feather 
draggling  over  her  shoulder. 

Johnny  was  furious  at  the  indignity. 

"Garn,  'oo  are  yer  'er  shovin'  of?  Give  yer 
er  start  an'  git  there  first,  see  if  I  doesn't, 
yer  bloomin'  cad!" 

39 


Gutter-Babies 

A  roar  of  laughter  from  the  fat  man 
drowned  my  piteous  entreaties,  as  Johnny 
wrenched  himself  free  of  my  careful  grasp, 
swung  himself  on  to  the  rail,  and  boarded 
the  tram  in  an  absolutely  miraculous  way, 
like  the  cat  in  a  Christmas  pantomime.  For 
a  moment  I  saw  his  beaming  triumph  over 
the  polished  bar  on  top,  till  a  buzzing  sea  of 
people  hid  it  from  me.  Then  the  tram  started 
and  Johnny  was  out  in  the  world  alone.  For 
a  time  I  pursued,  as  some  dumb  thing  robbed 
of  its  young,  while  the  conductor  with  a  tol- 
erant smile  patiently  rebuked  my  persistency. 
"I  tell  yer,  there  ain't  no  room!" 
Every  second  the  distance  between  Johnny 
and  me  grew  more  alarming,  until  at  last  the 
car  became  a  tiny  orange,  bounding  away  in 
the  dusty  horizon.  Then  I  went  to  the  near- 
est police  station,  harassed  and  incoherent. 
A  very  big,  very  gentle  official  listened  with 
some  patience  to  my  painful  recital,  operating 
on  the  telephone  and  questioning  me  from 
time  to  time. 

"Was  the  article  of  much  value?" 
*!jOh,  yes,  indeed,  it  could  never  be  re- 
40 


Walking  Out  with  Special  Johnny 

placed,"  I  assured  him;  "in  fact,  it  was  quite 
unique!" 

This  information  was  bawled  from  suburb 
to  suburb,  and  the  fame  of  Special  Johnny 
became  more  than  merely  local. 

The  next  question  was  a  teaser. 

"Was  it  coloured?"^  My  hesitation  was 
obvious. 

"The  colour?"  persisted  the  polite  official. 

"It  was  European,"  I  began  feebly,  and 
knew  at  once  that  I  had  committed  myself, 
—  for  who  knows  the  true  origin  of  the  dusky- 
eyed  "Rum  Roy"? 

For  some  minutes  this  duologue  continued. 
At  last  my  interlocutor  was  seized  with  a 
really  brilliant  idea.  He  became  quite  intelli- 
gent over  it. 

"Are  you  speaking  of  a  boy,  madam?"  he 
suggested  suddenly,  and  with  perfect  com- 
posure the  ^next  message  sped  through  the 
telephone:  — 

"The  lady  has  lost  a  boy,  not  a  boa!" 

Then  he  turned  to  reassure  me.  Every 
tram  between  us  and  Hanwell  should  be 
thoroughly  searched  and  if  the  young  person 


Gutter-Babies 

were  discovered  he  would  be  detained  at  the 
local  police  station,  and  communication  sent 
to  me ;  but  he  finished  up  with  a  little  fatherly 
advice,  which  did  much  to  soothe  my  agita- 
tion. If  he  were  me  (no  doubt  congratulating 
himself  that  it  was  not  so  with  him),  he  would 
return  home  at  once  in  case  Johnny  had  by 
some  strange  chance  got  there  first.  I  had 
pictured  to  myself  many  final  scenes  of  trag- 
edy, varying  in  pathos  and  agony,  but  that 
I  had  not  thought  of. 

Once  more  Hope  whispered  faintly  to  my 
despairing  heart  as  I  sat  spent  and  worn  in 
the  car  that  bumped  me  along  my  anxious 
way.  As  I  reached  my  destination  the  lights 
of  home  jumped  up  one  by  one  in  the  twilight, 
and  the  holiday-makers  were  gathering  in 
friendly  loquacious  groups  round  the  hospit- 
able doors  of  the  publican.  I  made  straight 
for  Johnny's  mother.  She  was  presiding  at 
some  sort  of  a  banquet  with  the  blessings  that 
every  year  added  to  her  round  about  her 
table.  It  was  a  less  formidable  interview  than 
might  have  been  expected. 

"Give  yer  the  slip!  Did  'e  now?  The  saucy 
42 


.Walking  Out  with  Special  Johnny 

little  dev!  But  'e'll  never  lose  'isself  —  no 
sich  luck!" 

She  was  busy  with  at  least  four  rosebud 
mouths  expectant,  —  besides  the  babe  at  her 
breast,  —  and  no  doubt  dismissed  the  matter 
from  her  mind  as  I  left  pondering  over  the 
dispositions  of  maternity.  The  wisdom  of  the 
generating  ages  would  never,  I  suppose,  be 
deceived  into  thinking  that  my  Johnny  did 
not  belong  to  somebody  else,  but  surely  the 
test  has  altered  since  the  day  of  Solomon. 

But  the  big  official  with  his  kindly  advice, 
and  the  poor  woman  embarrassed  by  the  lib- 
erality of  Nature's  dower,  were  both  quite 
right.  As  I  approached,  behold  an  elongated 
branch  of  the  may-tree,  with  Johnny  at  the 
remote  end  of  it  sweeping  the  gutter  with  a 
delightful  swinging  motion. 

"Yer  losed  me!"  said  John,  when,  the  first 
gush  of  joy  over,  the  time  for  explanation 
had  come.  And  that  was  all  I  could  ever  get 
out  of  him  about  that  wild  ride  into  a  new 
world,  which  must  have  seemed  to  his  Gutter- 
bound  vision  as  the  spaceless  Universe  itself, 
though  the  occasion  is  often  referred  to  with 

43 


Gutter-Babies 

injured  pathos,  —  "Yer  losed  me  onct," — 
and  always  somehow  with  beneficial  results 
to  himself.  But  it  was  a  necessary  incident 
in  the  long  sweet  romance  of  our  companion- 
ship. Loss  and  recognition  are  indispensable 
to  the  sense  of  possession.  Everything  has 
to  be  found  once,  even  one's  own  identity. 
Johnny  is  my  Johnny  now,  because  there  is  the 
chance  of  losing  him. 


CHAPTER  VI 

Where  the  Gutter-Babies  Play 

WHEN  the  slum  naturalist  grows 
confused  and  loses  his  bearings  in 
the  Gutter,  he  does  not,  as  some 
people  imagine,  wander  westwards  to  think  out 
his  problem  in  an  armchair,  but  sits  down  just 
where  he  is,  to  think.  Then  he  discovers  some- 
thing he  might  have  known  all  the  while,  if 
only  he  had  not  been  too  busy  to  be  attentive, 
—  that  the  Gutter  itself  has  a  voice  to  answer 
questions.  At  these  times  Guttergarten,  the 
play  kingdom  of  slum  childhood,  is  indispens- 
able, and  adequately  provides  for  the  medical 
prescription  of  rest  and  change.  Buried  in 
the  heart  of  a  world  of  smoky  factories,  laun- 
dries, and  disfiguring  architecture,  there  lies 
photographed  upon  my  mind  the  picture  of 
an  acre  or  so  of  asphalt  yard,  —  the  "Rec," 
as  I  remember  it  one  grey  afternoon.  The 
shadows  mocked  my  loneliness  in  trembling 
sport  about  the  gaunt  giant-strides  and  idle 

45 


Gutter-Babies 

swings,  dancing  fantastically  in  the  silent  cir- 
cle, where  on  summer  nights  the  shabby  band 
bangs  out  a  mirthless  music  and  all  the  Gut- 
ter-world turns  out  to  hear.  The  spot  remains 
a  dear  and  sacred  memory,  for  there  are  a 
thousand  traces  of  the  merry  little  wild  people 
whom  I  love.  Here  is  the  muddy  print  of  a  tiny 
naked  foot  with  its  hobnailed  companion  be- 
side it.  It  is  the  trail  of  war,  for  yonder  lies  the 
twin  boot,  where  it  was  hurled  at  the  enemy 
when  its  owner,  unable  to  find  any  other 
missile,  used  it  as  a  last  resource  —  as  I  have 
seen  many  a  Gutter-baby  do  —  and  was  then 
unable  to  recover  it.  When  it  is  dark  he  will 
come  back,  creeping  cautiously,  and  leering 
warily  round  to  see  if  it  is  still  there.  This 
was  the  point,  a  little  to  the  left,  where  the 
combatants  closed  in  a  struggle,  for  clinging 
to  the  railing  is  the  jagged  remnant  of  a  shirt. 
Before  us  is  the  lamp-post  where  a  merry  slum 
sprite  has  swung,  seated  in  the  loop  of  a 
skipping-rope,  until  the  partner  whose  office 
it  is  to  guard  against  a  catastrophe  gets 
careless,  and  the  victim  is  bruised  cruelly 
again.  How  many  times  I  have  watched  this 

46 


Where  the  Gutter-Babies  Play 

daring  game,  and  it  always  ends  the  same 
way. 

"Yer  goes  on,"  Johnny  once  explained  to 
me,  "till  yer  bashes  in  yer  'ead,  or  tweaks  yer 
dicky!" 

But  now  we  have  turned  into  the  narrow 
alley  that  will  bring  us  to  the  outer  gate, 
beyond  which  the  struggle  of  life,  of  which 
Guttergarten  is  only  a  rehearsal,  is  being 
played  out  in  grim  reality. 

Here  Gutter-love  was  plighted  and  had  its 
trysting  place  last  springtide.  It  was  as  we 
wandered  into  the  sunshine  together,  when 
the  sparrows  were  chirping  cheekily  from 
their  queer  nests  in  chimney  and  drain-pipe, 
when  the  coster's  barrows  formed  a  green 
sliding  forest  of  feathery  ferns,  when  the 
women's  heads  were  crowned  with  gardens  of 
gay  blossoms,  and  the  city  wheels  moved 
round  to  the  music  of  the  many-voiced  cry  of 
"  Vilots,  sweet  vilots! "  that  Johnny  suggested 
with  an  apologetic  and  embarrassed  blush, 
"M'oi  bring  along  a  lydy?"  With  a  mighty 
effort  a  quick  pang  of  jealousy  was  strangled 
and  assent  given.  Perhaps  the  "lydy"  her- 

47 


Gutter-Babies 

self  unconsciously  assisted  the  decision.  She 
was  small  and  starved  and  skeery,  with  pink- 
edged  squinting  eyes  and  faded  stringy  hair. 
She  never,  to  my  knowledge,  addressed  any 
remark  to  Johnny,  but  accepted  him  quite 
naturally  as  her  "  bloke."  Johnny  managed 
the  entire  courtship  himself,  cultivating  with 
a  curious  imaginative  skill  this  Gutter-Eden 
of  his  own  creation.  One  incident  drawn  from 
many  others  will  show  how  he  did  it. 

"  Naow,  do  be  mitey  an*  jes  ply  engings  wi' 
me  fer  onct,  —  wot,  yer  won't?  Git  yer  oye 
in  er  sling,  then!  Yer  do  wot  oi  tells  yer! 
Oise  yer  bloke.  Stand  ther  naow!  —  wot,  yer 
won't?  not  'arf!  Onct  oi  sez  it,  oi  means  it; 
none  of  yer  swank !  Naow,  yer 's  a  enging,  an* 
oi 's  er  enging.  Wen  oi  whistles,  yer  whistles 
—  git  on  wi'  it,  thin,  can't  yer?  Wen  oi  runs, 
yer  runs."  They  both  did  —  and  met  in  an 
awful  collision,  letting  off  steam  together  in  a 
roar  of  pain  and  rage. 

"Garn,"  said  Johnny,  as  soon  as  he  could 
speak  articulately,  "yer  aren't  'arf  fast!" 

It  was  the  end  of  the  romance.  Later  I 
observed  Johnny  spending  the  halfpence  he 

48 


Where  the  Gutter- Babies  Play 

had  saved  towards  a  little  home  with  lavish 
unconcern. 

"Garn,"  he  said  to  me,  "'er  ain't  no  clars; 
oise  yer  little  Johnny,  ain't  oi?  Won't  never 
leave  yer  agin!" 

Already  we  are  in  the  street,  but  not  be- 
yond the  sway  of  Guttergarten.  The  "Rec" 
is  its  fortress  and  stronghold,  but  its  terri- 
tories know  no  such  narrow  limit,  for  it  is  one 
of  the  tender  leniencies  of  borough  discipline 
that  the  streets  of  even  an  earthly  city  shall 
be  full  of  boys  and  girls  at  play.  Let  us  stand 
here  a  moment  with  noses  flattened  against 
the  window  of  the  typical  bazaar  where 
Johnny  and  Company  satisfy,  with  a  mar- 
vellous expenditure  of  ill-gotten  wealth,  an 
extraordinary  desire  for  something  sticky 
and  nauseous.  Lengthy  strips  of  elastic  lico- 
rice "garters"  drape  themselves  into  enticing 
clusters,  the  halfpenny  "mixture"  offers  a  ka- 
leidoscope of  varied  hues,  clinging  to  treacle 
apples  from  which  the  core  has  been  ex- 
tracted to  admit  a  stream  of  congealed  syrup; 
we  recognize  the  stripe  of  the  familiar  bulls- 
eye.  Here  amongst  the  latest  novelties  may 

49 


Gutter-Babies 

be  purchased  the  Nightingale,  a  quaint  musi- 
cal lozenge,  which  in  process  of  suction  utters 
a  weird  note  and  disappears  in  song  like  a 
dying  swan.  My  night  school  once  persuaded 
me  to  adopt  this  instrument  in  preference  to 
a  bell,  but  owing  to  the  stringent  and  objec- 
tionable flavour  of  a  certain  bladder-like  sub- 
stance, which  is  the  soul  of  the  music,  we 
were  forced  to  abandon  the  idea. 

Yonder  end  of  rope,  that  swings  a  frayed 
and  dejected  fragment  from  the  rail  above 
the  area  of  a  grey  and  dingy  lodging-house, 
has  a  pathetic  story  for  us  to  read  before  we 
turn  away  from  the  last  merry  laugh  of  Gut- 
tergarten  to  the  toil  and  traffic  of  the  city 
day.  It  was  told  to  me  once  in  a  fierce  burst 
of  grief  by  a  wild-eyed,  broken-hearted  man, 
who  lives  at  the  bottom  of  these  steps. 

"It  wur  moi  little  Rosie  wot  set  it  up,  moi 
little  gal  wot  set  it  up  ther,  an  wus  a-swingin' 
over  the  airy  so  innercent  loike,  wen  over  it 
gives,  and  down  fell  she  on  'er  'ead.  'Er  went 
to  'orspital,  but  'er  never  git  no  better,  an* 
all  'er  croi  wus, '  Dad,  don't  yer  tike  that  ther 
rope  down,  it  be  sich  er  foine  piece!"' 

50. 


Where  the  Gutter-Babies  Play 

So  it  swings  there  yet,  and  has  weathered 
all  the  winter  storms,  a  silent  tribute  to  the 
god  of  sport,  who,  though  he  prowls  from 
field  to  riverside,  climbing  even  the  Alpine 
glacier  to  claim  his  own,  seems  to  love  best  to 
pounce  on  the  little  sparrows  in  the  city 
Gutter;  and  I  wonder  sometimes,  when  wise 
people  are  talking  about  the  waste  of  child 
life,  that  they  do  not  more  often  remark  the 
queer  fact  that  in  strange  defiance  of  natural 
laws,  the  slums  and  alleys  are  rearing  many 
a  sickly  old  man  child  who  has  never  learnt 
to  play,  while  in  Guttergarten  day  by  day 
strong  little  bodies  lie  down  to  a  long  rest 
after  their  last  most  daring  enterprise. 


CHAPTER  VII 

Trippers  in  Gutter garten 

A  VISITOR  in  Guttergarten   always 
brings  a  dual  disappointment.    You 
have  one  twin  (the  bigger)  and  your 
friend  has  the  other.    I  know  of  only  one  ex- 
ception, in  the  long  and  varied  experience  of 
at  least  one  slum  courier,  and  it  happened  in 
this  way. 

I  had  just  gone  through  the  dreariest  of 
Gutter  pilgrimages  with  a  "lydy"  relative, 
had  wearied  her  unutterably,  and  quenched 
every  spark  of  that  queer  inquisitive  sym- 
pathy with  which  one  half  of  the  human  fam- 
ily likes  to  regard  the  unexplored  mysteries 
of  the  other.  Never  had  my  beloved  Gutter 
appeared  so  little  attractive;  never  had  the 
monotony  of  the  tall  dull  lines  of  lodgings  been 
so  oppressive,  or  the  gaunt  famine-stricken 
groups  of  the  unemployed  seemed  so  unem- 
ployable !  The  Gutter-babies  were  packed  in 
bored  unsmiling  rows  in  their  various  ed- 

52 


Trippers  in  Guttergarten 

ucational  centres,  and  as  we  passed,  their 
voices,  shrilly  raised  in  the  peculiar  chant 
in  which  they  recite  their  lessons,  sound- 
ed strained  and  unnatural.  A  few  truants 
scattered  away  at  our  approach  in  round- 
eyed  wonder  to  gaze,  finger  in  mouth,  at  the 
strange  "lydy."  We  had  been  to  the  church 
and  found  it  wrapped  in  a  solemn  shroud  of 
gloom;  we  had  wandered  stolidly  through 
densely  populated  alleys,  as  unresponsive 
and  lonely  as  only  the  great  city  knows  how 
to  be;  and  now  we  had  drawn  my  parlour 
curtains  over  the  slum  scenery  and  settled 
down  to  tea  and  muffins  within  the  cheery 
shelter  of  four  firelit  walls,  both  of  us  trying 
hard  not  to  recognise  failure  in  the  expedi- 
tion. From  without  came  an  unearthly  cry, 
something  between  an  Indian  battle-yell  and 
the  despairing  howl  of  a  lonely  terrier.  It 
was  not  unfamiliar  to  one  of  us,  who  knew 
that  it  was  a  signal,  which  might  mean  trouble 
if  treated  with  contempt.  Again  it  came,  louder 
and  more  emphatic;  I  dared  not  delay  longer. 
"Excuse  me,"  I  said,  "it  is  a  friend."  And 
raised  my  voice  to  echo  back  the  call. 

53 


Gutter-Babies 

A  heavy  battering  on  the  door  which  had 
hastened  my  response  ceased,  and  through 
the  sudden  silence  came  a  human  voice. 

"Ef  yer  don't  let  'im  in  'e'll  kick  yer  door 
down!  'E '11  swear  awful,  'e  will!  'E'll  bang 
big  stones  at  yer  glass,  'e  will!" 

What  was  to  be  done?  It  was  my  Johnny 
in  his  most  imperative  mood. 

Then  one  of  the  best  ideas  I  have  ever  had 
came  to  me. 

"  It  is  one  of  the  natives,"  I  said;  and  added 
carelessly,  "I  suppose  you  wouldn't  care  to 
see  him?" 

Happily  the  visitor  did  care,  so  Johnny 
came  to  the  rescue. 

Small  and  slender,  but  supple-limbed,  with 
the  genius  of  a  long  line  of  gipsy  ancestry 
shining,  for  those  who  knew  where  to  look  for 
it,  in  the  wonderful  brown  heavily-fringed 
eyes  above  a  full  curve  of  ruddy  cheeks  —  no 
word  picture  could  do  justice  to  my  Johnny. 
Two  enormous  ears  suggest  the  uneasy  idea 
that  they  are  an  effort  at  compensation  on 
the  part  of  nature  for  that  arrest  of  intellect- 
ual finish  somewhere,  which  has  won  for  him 

54 


Trippers  in  Guttergarten 

the  title  of  Special  Johnny,  and  a  seat  in  the 
department  of  the  local  London  County 
School  reserved  for  psychic  curiosities.  His 
hair  is  generally  a  dull  dusty  colour,  long  and 
limp,  though  I  do  remember  on  one  occasion 
finding  a  bright  auburn-haired  Johnny  sur- 
rounded by  grinning  pals,  who  were  making 
a  great  show  of  warming  their  wicked  little 
hands  at  his  glowing  halo.  But  this  was  after 
a  rare  visit  to  the  local  Toilet  Club,  whence 
he  came  to  me  with  head  dressed  in  the  last 
fashion  of  the  true  Gutter-dandy,  with  a  long, 
ragged  red  fringe  crawling  into  languishing 
eyes,  and  said  insinuatingly,  "Will  I  be  yer 
little  bloke  now?" 

He  wears  the  native  dress  —  rags,  drab 
and  scanty  —  and  his  stockings  are  a  minute 
drapery  about  the  ankle  beneath  which  he 
trots  cheerfully,  barefoot  alike  through  bitter 
frost  and  gentle  rain.  He  came  in  now  with 
the  frolic  of  a  puppy,  too  glad  in  the  warm 
present  to  remember  anything  else. 

"  'E  's  goin'  to  be  good  boy,  Vs  yer  Johnny ! " 
he  said  with  a  reassuring  glance  at  me.  Then 
his  cunning  eye  lighted  on  the  visitor,  quietly 

55 


Gutter-Babies 

observing  him  over  her  tea-cup  with  amused 
interest. 

Immediately  one  of  those  quick  changes 
followed  which  are  a  fundamental  principle  of 
the  slum  school,  and  are  grasped  by  the  Gutter- 
baby  long  before  his  aristocratic  little  cousin 
in  the  kindergarten  has  mastered  his  ABC. 

The  smile  died  on  his  face,  a  sudden  pathos 
drew  the  dimples  from  his  cheeks,  and  deep- 
ened peevish  lines  round  his  mouth,  the 
weariness  of  the  world  looked  out  of  his  eyes, 
and  the  little  figure  drooped  into  the  shame- 
faced, spiritless  stoop  which  is  the  birthright 
of  the  loafer.  He  held  out  both  degraded  little 
mercenary  hands  and  dragged  his  feet  heav- 
ily across  the  room.  The  transformation  was 
complete;  in  a  trice  the  merry  little  independ- 
ent sprite  of  the  Gutter  had  become  that 
grovelling  wretch  —  the  professional  beggar! 

"Ain't  'ad  no  dinner,  lydy!"  he  whined. 

He  was  not  hungry,  he  had  dined  heavily 
on  soup  and  suet  at  the  Free  Kitchen,  and 
there  was  an  immediate  prospect  of  tea,  but 
it  was  his  one  trick,  and  he  must  show  it  off, 
and  would  do  it  as  well  as  he  knew  how. 

56 


Trippers  in  Guttergarten 

"Daddy  got  no  bread  fer  little  Johnny!" 
he  went  on;  "no  fire,  no  nothink;  Mother 
says  kind  lydy  give  Johnny  a  penny  — 
wouldn't  buy  drink,  oh,  no!" 

Here  he  carefully  performed  his  favourite 
oath,  consisting  of  a  solemn  pantomime  in 
which  he  anoints  the  forefinger  of  his  right 
hand,  makes  horrible  suggestive  indications 
under  his  chin,  and  striking  his  chest  vio- 
lently says,  "Lick  finger,  cut  throat,  strike 
'art,  'e  won't!  Johnny  no  bloo'  tow!" 

We  persuaded  him  at  last  to  leave  off  beg- 
ging, for  a  little  refreshment.  He  poured  the 
hot  tea  into  his  saucer  and  licked  it  up  like 
a  little  purring  cat,  squatting  on  the  floor  in 
front  of  the  fire,  and  leering  slyly  at  the 
visitor. 

"Don't  cher  know  me?  Wot,  not  'er 
Johnny?"  he  said,  indicating  me  with  a 
sticky  spoon;  "thought  not  nobody  don't 
know  me!" 

This  was  how  Johnny  came  to  the  rescue. 
Never  more  will  I  play  hostess  in  the  slums 
to  usurp  the  Gutter  King's  throne.  There 
are  many  high  places  where  he  cannot  sit  at 

57 


Gutter-Babies 

ease  and  many  environments  of  life  to  which 
he  is  not  able  to  adapt  himself,  but  in  his  own 
native  ditch  he  is  supreme,  he  is  magnificent. 
My  visitor  went  back  from  her  trip  to 
Gutterland  with  the  picture  of  a  real  live 
Gutter-baby  photographed  upon  her  brain, 
and  left  behind  her  five  bright  shillings  which 
Johnny  and  I  handled  long  and  tenderly 
before  we  made  up  our  minds  how  to  invest 
them.  But  that  belongs  to  another  story, 
and  I  do  not  know  whether  Johnny  will  ever 
let  me  tell  it. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

The  Development  of  Johnny 

A'  this  time  the  whole  planet  seemed 
set  in  its  place  among  the  worlds  and 
fitted  up  for  one  great  purpose,  — 
the  making  of  my  Johnny.  This  small  Self- 
life  seemed  to  have  become  a 'centre  of  crys- 
tallization in  the  world  of  matter,  hungrily 
assimilating  its  environment  in  the  effort  to 
focus  its  own  character.  Johnny's  develop- 
ment was  a  procession  of  transitory  moods, 
uphill  and  down,  through  rain  and  sunshine. 
He  was  very  good,  and  the  magnetic  touch  of 
his  friendly  little  hand  in  mine,  and  the  in- 
fectious music  of  his  merry  laugh,  could  lift 
one  in  a  golden  moment  to  the  third  heaven, 
but  the  descent  was  as  certain  as  sudden, 
and  behold!  there  was  not  one  virtue  in  him. 
A  torrent  of  filthy  and  abusive  eloquence,  a 
genius  for  inventive  lies,  a  furious  and  bitterly 
resentful  temper,  were  all  components  of  the 
remarkable  Spirit-Demon  which  at  times  pos- 

59 


Gutter-Babies 

sessed  him,  and  kept  the  scale  of  my  Johnny's 
psychostasia  well  in  the  balance  of  retrogres- 
sion. The  bright  moments  of  his  baby  life, 
which  grew  briefer  though  ever  more  pre- 
cious as  his  little  body  waxed  stronger,  were 
the  lurid  signals  of  some  terrific  and  explo- 
sive exhibition. 

He  could  sit  patiently  dreaming  in  the 
pauper  pew  on  Sunday  evenings,  with  vision- 
ary eyes  wandering  among  the  flowers  and 
the  altar  lights;  he  would  even  sing  a  hymn 
sometimes  in  a  soft  and  gentle  treble,  when 
the  tune  caught  his  ear  and  the  words  found 
some  responsive  nucleus  in  the  ideation  cen- 
tres of  his  clouded  brain.  But  the  halo  would 
not  fit  the  appalling  revelation  of  Monday 
morning. 

"Johnny  mustn't  go  ter  meetin'  any 
more,"  he  decided  at  last.  "Teacher  sez  yer 
sh'd  jes'  see  'ow  orful  'e  is  next  dy!" 

He  never  had  any  apology  for  these  occa- 
sions, —  "  Oi  jes'  goes  mad  an'  'as  the  'eadache 
some  think  crool!"  he  would  say. 

Several  stormy  years  of  our  friendship  were 
slipping  by  amid  mirth  and  tears,  and  still 

60 


The  Development  of  Johnny 

the  index  of  Johnny's  mind  read  reversion  to 
type,  —  Johnny  was  not  a  gentleman. 

One  had  started  out  as  the  pioneer  of  his 
education  with  such  grand  and  heroic  ideas, 
under  a  sky  of  starry  promise.  He  was  to 
exist  in  spite  of  his  environment,  not  in  any 
sort  of  correspondence  with  it.  He  was  to  be 
a  gentleman  of  the  slums,  a  Gutter-boy  in 
rags  with  the  motto  "noblesse  oblige"  written 
all  over  his  young  heart. 

And  here  we  were  left  without  any  enno- 
bling result  from  our  foolish  aspirations,  with 
the  problem  of  human  reconstruction  still 
staring  at  us.  One  had  fallen  so  low  as  to 
tolerate  the  thought  of  starting  with  the  con- 
version of  the  external  in  the  dim  hope  of 
persuading  oneself  that  beauty  of  form  is  the 
expression  of  progress. 

"Johnny,  if  I  make  you  look  like  a  gen- 
tleman, could  you  possibly  pretend  to  be 
one?" 

The  proposal  was  very  acceptable  to 
Johnny. 

Was  there  ever  a  great  personality  which 
did  not  love  to  pose?  Man  is  fickle  even  to 

61 


Gutter-Babies 

the  Self-life  that  he  adores,  and  loves  to  turn 
his  back  on  it  at  times  till  its  crying  need 
recalls  him. 

Five  shillings  and  a  pawnshop  did  the  rest, 
and  my  Johnny  resuscitated  the  age  of  the 
dandies.  He  went  into  the  dim  recess  behind 
the  rows  of  swinging  garments  —  a  pictur- 
esque ruddy-cheeked  Gutter-baby,  happy  and 
eager,  a  bit  cleaner  than  usual.  He  came 
out  a  wretched  little  snob,  with  his  head 
rivetted  in  a  wide  collar,  his  feet  moving 
heavily  in  stiff  hobnailed  instruments  of  tor- 
ture, and  an  orange-striped  cap  on  the  most 
hairy  point  of  his  skull. 

"Will  I  do?  Please,  I've  come!"  he  said 
with  a  horrible  leer. 

At  least  the  spectacle  of  his  vanity  justified 
the  expenditure.  He  tweaked  and  twisted  his 
small  body  into  extraordinary  contortions  in 
order  to  view  as  much  of  it  as  possible  from 
every  conceivable  angle,  he  strolled  proudly 
about  with  his  elbows  out,  he  twirled  an  im- 
aginary cane,  and  buttoned  and  unbuttoned 
his  coat  a  dozen  times  a  minute. 

"Ain't  it  all  right!"  he  appealed  to  me  at 
62 


The  Development  of  Johnny 

intervals,  and  never  knew  he  was  breaking 
my  heart. 

How  could  I  take  him  home  to  his  mother 
like  this  and  hear  her  say,  "Well,  'e  do  look 
a  treat!" 

f  On  the  way  we  were  mercifully  relieved  of 
one  article;  a  yellow  cat  was  soliloquizing 
loudly  on  somebody's  roof  as  we  passed,  and 
Johnny,  yielding  to  the  only  natural  impulse, 
sent  the  orange-streaked  cap  flying  into  a 
tree,  where  it  stuck  forlornly  for  many  days, 
until  every  trace  of  the  gaudy  ornamentation 
had  disappeared.  A  little  farther  on,  his 
collar  burst  as  he  was  stooping  over  a  puddle 
to  catch  a  glimpse  of  his  own  loveliness.  Al- 
ready he  began  to  look  a  little  more  like  him- 
self. For  many  hours  he  walked  sedately 
about,  the  cynosure  of  every  eye,  but  it  was 
a  difficult  part  for  him  to  keep  up.  Towards 
evening  I  lost  sight  of  him,  and  went  out 
later  in  search  of  him  to  know  the  latest 
development.  The  sky  was  alive  with  stars, 
set  like  jewels  in  a  velvet  pall,  and  the  moon- 
light poured  down  on  a  scene  that  does  not 
know  the  meaning  of  the  hush  of  night.  Like 

63 


Gutter-Babies 

eerie  shadows  a  group  of  grimy  imps,  half- 
clad  and  wild  with  the  joy  of  their  play,  were 
darting  here  and  there  in  the  distance,  and 
one  grimier  and  more  ragged  than  the  rest 
came  to  me  in  a  torn  shirt,  with  one  trouser 
leg  ripped  up,  carrying  his  boots  in  his  hand. 

"  I  Ve  jes*  tiked  me  gentleman  clothes  off 
fer  er  little  rest!"  he  explained  apologeti- 
cally. 

Three  days  later,  there  was  nothing  left  of 
the  masquerade  but  a  little  grey  bundle  in 
the  pawnshop,  and  a  crumpled  ticket  safely 
stowed  away  in  the  heel  of  a  forsaken 
stocking. 

The  boots,  it  is  true,  lingered  for  a  little 
while  longer,  but  at  last  they,  too,  went  home, 
and  I  forgot  to  miss  them  till  one  day  a  few 
pence  in  a  hot  little  hand  raised  in  my  mind 
a  cruel  suspicion  that  my  Johnny  was  not  a 
man  to  be  trusted. 

"Johnny,"  I  cried,  thrilled  with  horror, 
"where  did  you  get  that  money  from?" 

He  amused  himself  for  some  time  playing 
with  my  worst  fears,  and  exciting  me  beyond 
endurance. 

64 


The  Development  of  Johnny 

At  first  he  almost  confessed  that  he  had 
"pinched"  it,  but  he  couldn't  remember 
where.  Then  he  declared  he  had  "earned  it 
honest,"  and  told  a  long  confused  story  about 
it,  full  of  incident,  but  he  couldn't  quite  fin- 
ish it,  and  the  pennies  had  still  to  be  accounted 
for.  At  last,  having  reduced  me  to  a  fever  of 
misery,  he  said  condescendingly,  "Cum  out 
of  it,  thin,  oi'll  show  yer!" 

We  walked  on  in  silence  till  our  pilgrimage 
ended  abruptly  at  the  corner  of  the  street. 
There,  under  three  dusty  golden  balls,  swung 
sadly  a  little  pair  of  lonely  boots.  Johnny 
pointed  to  them  solemnly,  and  there  was  a 
convincing  ring  of  proprietorship  in  his  voice, 
—  "Thim's  moine!" 

It  was  the  end  of  a  tremendous  failure,  and 
the  experience  had  been  a  sharp  lesson  in  the 
methods  of  evolution.  But  as  I  looked  into 
his  big  impudent  eyes  and  answered  the  wide 
smile  of  self-satisfaction  that  I  found  there, 
I  felt  just  a  little  less  despondent  than  usual 
about  the  development  of  my  Johnny. 

To  him  it  had  been  all  a  very  good  joke, 
and  he  could  afford  to  be  kind. 

65 


Gutter-Babies 

"Oi  wus  only  'avin*  a  game  with  yer!"  he 
said  and  encircled  me  with  loving  arms,  rub- 
bing a  little  rough  head  tenderly  against  my 
hand.  "But  weren't  it  a  bloody  shame  ter 
worrit  yer,  though?" 


CHAPTER  IX 

The  Gutter  Parson 

A  REMARKABLE  fact  in  the  unique 
history  of  the  Gutter  is  its  utterly  in- 
sistent continuity.  Autocracies  and 
democracies  may  succeed  each  other,  and  king- 
doms wax  and  wane,  but  we  must  go  on  for 
ever.  Here  lies  buried  the  ultimate  hope  of  the 
earth,  for  here  at  least  is  abundant  and  suffi- 
cient witness  of  the  inefficacy  and  limitations 
of  human  systems  and  organisations.  The 
little  Gutter-babies,  branded  with  divine 
favour,  serve  a  tremendous  end,  for  they  are 
the  proof  of  waste  and  failure,  and  even  in 
the  measure  of  natural  opulence  and  glory 
these  have  to  be  accounted  for. 
•  Therefore,  with  an  innocent  conscience, 
and  an  entire  lack  of  prudence,  the  Gut- 
ter continues  its  rapid  process  of  propaga- 
tion. 

''Gawd  only  knows  where  they  come  from, 
and  Gawd  only  knows  what  will  become  of 

67 


Gutter-Babies 

them!"  says  the  improvident  mother  of  in- 
numerable Gutter-babies,  whose  husband  is 
out  on  the  hunger  march,  and  whose  eldest 
is  just  beginning  to  earn,  as  she  tells  us,  with 
a  deep  mysterious  joy,  of  what  will  happen 
next  month. 

And  so  it  is  that  there  are  always  plenty  of 
Gutter-babies. 

Sometimes,  and  especially  at  certain  sea- 
sons of  the  year,  or  when  the  family  fortunes 
seem  to  encourage  self-advertisement  and 
ceremonial,  it  happens  even  among  the  pagan 
Gutter-folk  that  the  young  people  are  seized 
with  the  desire  to  have  a  show.  Then  there 
is  a  tremendous  gathering  of  the  Gutter,  and 
a  rainbow  shower  of  confetti  round  the  church 
and  presently  a  blushing  shame-faced  boy  in 
a  miserably  new  outfit,  and  a  bold-eyed  gor- 
geous bride,  with  perhaps  even  in  her  escort 
one  or  two  Gutter-babies,  oddly  disguised  in 
feathers  and  ribbons. 

Easter  morning  is  a  favourite  occasion  for 
this  sort  of  pantomime,  and  is  of  course  ex- 
ceptionally inconvenient  to  the  ecclesiastical 
authorities. 

68 


The  Gutter  Parson 

Our  "Loo"  was  going  to  marry  Bill  Smith 
like  this. 

It  seemed  to  Loo  that  morning  that  the 
Easter  sun  shone  as  if  it  "never  'ad  before." 
She  and  her  sisters  had  been  up  all  night, 
stitching  beads  into  a  pattern  on  her  satin 
train,  but  in  spite  of  this  she  was  as  fresh  as  a 
peach  now.  The  vigorous  youth  of  the  Gut- 
ter only  collapses  under  the  severe  and  pro- 
longed strain  of  matrimonial  experience  and 
the  keeping  of  the  home  together,  and  strug- 
gles with  fierce  contempt  against  the  shock 
of  circumstances  and  the  crushing  brutality  of 
overwork  and  irregular  hours. 

Although  Loo  had  been  reared  on  bread 
and  dripping  and  weak  tea  dust,  with  a  mag- 
nificent dinner  once  a  week  on  Sunday, 
Bill  was  justified  this  morning  in  his  boastful 
pride  of  her  brilliant  muscular  beauty.  But 
in  less  than  two  years,  the  memory  of  this 
vision  of  splendid  humanity  will  be  over.  Loo 
will  be  wondering  what  there  is  to  live  for 
long  before  then;  she  will  be  a  wasp-tongued, 
ill-tempered  gossip,  looking  out  at  Gutter- 
garten  with  haggard,  disappointed  eyes,  a 

69 


Gutter-Babies 

gaunt  and  weary  woman,  with  her  girlhood 
crushed  under  the  flood  of  pain  and  misery 
which  Bill's  wife  must  meet. 

The  outlook  of  the  young  people  was  not 
so  surprisingly  hopeful.  There  was  just 
enough  to  eat  at  home,  as  indeed  there  al- 
ways had  been,  but  Bill  had  unfortunately 
managed  to  lose  his  work  a  few  days  before 
the  wedding. 

However,  it  was  unlucky  to  put  things  off, 
and  besides,  Loo  had  a  tremendous  bet  that 
she  would  have  her  first  baby  before  she  was 
eighteen,  and  the  months  were  slipping  by. 

And  so  it  was  to  be  pulled  off. 

Loudly  the  Gutter  cheered  for  our  Loo,  as 
in  her  amazing  splendour,  with  but  a  poor 
attempt  at  concealing  her  embarrassment 
and  self-consciousness,  she  sauntered  into 
church  smirking  and  miserable,  on  the  arm  of 
her  stepfather;  and  they  were  both  trying 
hard  to  feel  as  if  they  were  quite  accustomed 
to  their  eccentric  performance.  Loo  leaned 
heavily  on  her  gallant  protector.  He  had 
often  made  her  feel  in  the  way  at  home,  had 
brutally  kicked  her  out  even,  more  than  once, 

70 


The  Gutter  Parson 

but  they  were  friends  now,  and  he  was  pleased 
and  proud  of  her  this  day.  For  it  is  human  to 
feel  conscious  of  some  appreciation  for  what 
we  are  in  the  act  of  giving  away. 

We  were  all  waiting,  Loo  triumphant,  dig- 
nified, and  brazen;  her  family  coy  and  face- 
tious; the  dense  cloud  of  witnesses  that  had 
flowed  in  from  the  Gutter  gaping,  irreverent 
and  hypercritical;  and  the  Gutter  Parson, 
nursing  his  disapprobation  in  preoccupied 
silence,  so  quiet  and  watchful  that  no  one 
caught  the  warning  of  the  coming  storm. 

Why  did  they  wait  so  long? 

Loo  looked  away  anxiously  down  the 
church,  across  that  tossing  sea  of  dark  faces, 
and  she  did  not  find  her  Bill.  For  a  brief 
moment  the  loyal  heart  of  this  Gutter  bride 
was  strangely  troubled. 

"  I  do  feel  hupset ! "  she  confided  to  her  first 
maid  of  honour.  Was  this,  perhaps,  some 
humorous  act  on  the  part  of  the  jocose  Bill? 
For  the  Gutter  jest  is  sometimes  pitilessly 
cruel  and  drastic.  She  could  almost  see  him 
in  the  imagery  of  her  tortured  mind,  boasting 
to  his  pals  at  the  "Blue  Star"  with  shrieking 


Gutter-Babies 

mirth,  of  this  most  drastic  and  colossal  "sell" 
that  he  had  so  skilfully  organized. 

But  a  slight  commotion  at  the  door  of  the 
church  abruptly  terminated  these  unhappy 
flights  of  meditation. 

Here  at  last  was  her  Bill,  with  dishevelled 
locks  and  crumpled  collar,  shoved  along  be- 
tween a  winking  and  amused  escort,  —  her 
Bill,  not  quite  himself! 

Still,  he  had  come;  he  had  not  failed  her, 
and  Loo's  anxiety  was  completely  removed. 

"Thank  Gawd,  'ere  'e  is,  if  'e  'as  'ad  a 
drop!" 

The  ceremony  commenced  and  they  stood 
together;  Bill's  knees  were  shaking  and  his 
eyes  vacant,  yet  all  might  have  gone  smoothly 
but  for  the  uninvited  presence  of  Special 
Johnny  among  the  chosen  guests.  It  had  been 
impossible  for  some  time  past  to  ignore  the 
persistent  interference  of  Johnny,  who  had 
managed  to  reserve  for  himself  a  conspicuous 
seat  in  the  near  proximity  of  the  interesting 
pair.  The  ceaseless  hum  and  commotion 
within  the  sacred  building  was  punctuated 
by  the  patient  perseverance  of  Johnny's 

72 


The  Gutter  Parson 

mother  as  she  vainly  strove  to  control  his 
movements. 

"B'ave  yerself,  can't  yer,  yer  little  devil? 
Wait  till  I  get  yer  'ome!" 

But  threats  were  idle  words  to  Special 
Johnny,  and  his  audacity  increased,  until,  in 
a  wild  moment  of  sudden  temptation,  he  dug 
Bill  violently  in  the  ribs,  and  that  unfortu- 
nate person,  being  in  no  condition  to  receive 
such  advances,  released  his  self-control  in  a 
tremendous  guffaw  that  burst  from  him  in  a 
thunder  of  merriment,  and  died  in  a  terrified 
whine  amid  the  shocked  silence  of  the  sud- 
denly subdued  Gutter.  It  was  then  that  the 
Gutter  Parson  took  definite  action. 

Perhaps  it  would  be  worth  while  to  look  at 
the  Gutter  Parson  for  a  minute  while  he  is 
here,  though  we  must  often  meet  him  in  the 
Gutter,  in  his  shabby  cassock  and  his  "funny 
little  'at!" 

Here  is  a  curious  phenomenon  of  nature,  — 
a  gentleman  and  a  scholar,  who  for  some 
reason  or  other  has  chosen  to  associate  him- 
self with  the  pain  and  poverty,  the  reeking 
squalor,  the  sin  and  devilry  of  the  Gutter. 

73 


Gutter-Babies 

It  almost  persuades  the  Man  in  the  Gutter 
to  believe  sometimes  in  the  genuineness  of  his 
attitude;  though  of  course  he  does  try  to  kid 
them  now  and  then!  There  was  Johnny's 
mother,  for  instance,  who  asked  for  milk 
when  the  baby  was  choking  with  the  whoop- 
ing-cough last  winter,  and  the  Gutter  Parson 
just  looked  at  her  and  said,  — 

"  My  good  woman,  am  I  a  cow?  " 

"Of  course  'e  were  n't  no  cow,  but  babies 
want  milk,  and  wot  are  parsons  paid  fer!" 

For  the  Man  in  the  Gutter  is  conscious  only 
of  a  body  that  gets  hungry  and  hurts,  and  a 
soul  that  is  capable  of  bitter  hatred  and  the 
sting  of  fear. 

Yet  the  Gutter  Parson  can  hold  his  own 
with  the  heart  of  the  Gutter.  I  have  seen  him 
in  the  suffocating  atmosphere  of  the  mission- 
hall,  through  the  thick  clouds  of  foul  tobacco- 
smoke,  perched  on  his  little  platform  before 
a  wild  mass  of  the  darkest  humanity  of  Lon- 
don, gathered  together  by  the  bribery  of  a 
"pipe  and  a  bellyful,"  a  small  and  not  im- 
posing figure,  with  a  curly  head  and  a  boyish 
smile  that  the  years  had  never  been  able  to 

74 


The  Gutter  Parson 

steal  from  us,  an  unconscious  and  magnificent 
display  of  leadership,  as  with  one  weak  hand 
lifted  from  time  to  time  against  that  vast  and 
powerful  throng  he  controlled  and  restrained 
and  silenced  their  fierce  emotions  at  his  will. 

The  Gutter  Parson  is  dead.  We  killed  him 
in  his  own  Gutter  with  our  importunity  and 
our  hopelessness  and  our  peculiar  ingratitude. 
But  we  could  not  bury  him. 

Last  Good  Friday,  old  widow  Judy,  re- 
puted by  an  ancient  tradition  of  the  Gutter- 
babies  to  be  a  spy  in  the  pay  of  the  police, 
heard  the  thin  treble  of  a  familiar  hymn-tune 
through  the  confused  tumult  of  the  holiday- 
making  street,  and  rose  up  in  her  warm  cor- 
ner of  the  "Blue  Star,"  where  she  sat  with 
her  pipe  and  glass,  sheltering  from  the  east 
wind  and  picking  up  scraps  of  gossip.  Strain- 
ing her  own  drunken  voice  to  that  faint  echo, 
she  began  a  dizzy,  perilous  dance  which  landed 
her  out  into  the  Gutter,  with  her  mocking 
words  and  her  evil  mocking  gestures,  just  as 
the  procession  from  the  Mission,  headed  by 
the  great  Crucifix  in  the  hard  strong  hands  of 
a  huge  navvy  in  corduroys,  with  the  dust  and 

75 


Gutter-Babies 

odour  of  his  labour  still  upon  him,  came  round 
the  corner. 

A  few  holiday-makers  stopped  to  laugh,  a 
small  acolyte  put  out  his  arm  to  push  her 
aside.  But  between  Judy  and  that  stalwart 
crucifer  swept  some  swift  and  silent  warning. 
Suddenly  flinging  up  her  hands,  with  a  loud 
unearthly  yell  the  old  creature  fell  forward, 
her  face  livid  in  the  waving  torchlight  as  the 
procession  filed  solemnly  past  her. 

"Oh,  my  Gawd,"  she  moaned,  "did  yer 
see  'im  there  plain  as  daylight?  And  me 
drunk  ag'in!" 

Sometimes  hurrying  through  the  market  in 
the  early  morning,  at  a  particular  bend  in  the 
road  I  meet  an  aged  travelling  hawker,  with  a 
lean  pack  on  his  stooping  shoulders.  His  wife 
is  dying  in  the  Infirmary,  looking  forward 
eagerly  to  a  happy  release,  and  he  earns 
hardly  the  few  pence  to  pay  for  his  bed  in  the 
common  lodging-house  which  is  his  home. 
But  he  is  an  Oxford  man,  and  belongs  to  one 
of  the  best  families  in  England. 

As  we  shake  hands  and  exchange  a  few 
remarks  with  an  absurd  enthusiasm  about 

76 


The  Gutter  Parson 

the  weather,  our  minds  fly  back,  shrinking 
into  the  narrow  atmosphere  of  a  stuffy 
mission-hall,  and  we  are  conscious  of  being 
again  in  the  ghostly  society  of  the  Gutter 
Parson. 

And  now  before  his  ungentle  discipline  this 
wedding  party  crept  silently  away  in  their 
shame  and  confusion,  leaving  behind  them  a 
sensation  of  strange  calm  and  stillness. 

Outside,  everyone  took  a  different  view  of 
things;  the  sun  was  still  warm  and  bright,  and 
Bill  revived  a  little  in  the  fresh  air.  No  one 
felt  inclined  to  be  really  serious  or  miserable, 
so  they  decided  to  continue  the  festivities  as 
if  there  had  been  no  interrupting  catastrophe 
in  the  programme. 

Later  on,  when  Bill  and  Loo  were  visited 
in  their  new  home,  they  had  agreed  not  to 
"bother  about  no  parsons  now." 

That  night,  behind  the  warm  light  in  the 
window  of  his  snug  den,  the  Gutter  Par- 
son had  company,  and  entertained  Special 
Johnny. 

"I'll  play  yer  buttons!"  said  his  small 
guest,  when  they  had  cleared  the  supper. 

77 


Gutter-Babies 

He  produced  a  handful  and  the  game  began. 

"That's  a  two-er,  and  that's  a  three-er, 
and  this  'ere's  a  tenner!"  he  said,  laying  it 
down  with  due  respect  and  watching  it  with 
loving  eyes. 

The  game  continued  with  furious  excite- 
ment and  deadly  seriousness.  Suddenly  there 
was  a  fierce  exclamation  from  Johnny,  and  a 
small  fist  surprised  the  Gutter  Parson's  left 
eyebrow. 

"Oo-er!  yer  bloody  cheat!"  said  Johnny. 
"What,  didn't  yer  lick  yer  bleedin'  thumb 
twice?  Now  say  yer  did  n't,  yer  swindlin' 
liar!" 

This  is  the  most  quarrelsome  and  wrang- 
ling game  that  the  Gutter-babies  play,  and 
they  fight  bitterly  over  it,  but  no  one  but  the 
Gutter  Parson  would  lick  his  finger  more  than 
once  in  picking  up  the  buttons.  At  ten 
o'clock,  when  Johnny  stood  on  the  doorstep, 
with  red  cheeks,  and  twisting  his  cap  in  his 
hands,  he  said, — 

"It  were  little  Johnny  spoiled  that  show 
this  mornin'." 

Nobody  else  would  have  thought  it  quite 
78 


The  Gutter  Parson 

in  proportion  to  play  buttons  all  the  evening 
with  a  juvenile  lunatic  for  the  purpose  of 
obtaining  this  minute  and  obvious  informa- 
tion. 

But  herein  lay  at  once  the  foolishness  and 
the  genius  of  our  Gutter  Parson. 


CHAPTER  X 
How  the  Gutter-Babies  Go 

THE  most  romantic  and  conspicuous 
thing  that  a  Gutter-baby  can  do  is 
to  die. 

In  Guttergarten,  one  can  of  course  be  born 
blind  or  crooked  or  Special,  but  to  be  really 
famous  it  is  necessary  to  have  also  made  the 
last  grave  venture. 

Although  it  is  the  common  lot  of  humanity, 
even  in  the  Gutter,  yet  whenever  it  happens  it 
ensures  to  the  individual  the  immense  esteem 
and  affection  of  his  relatives,  of  which  per- 
haps in  the  time  of  normal  health  he  may  have 
sometimes  felt  doubtful;  and  it  also  marks 
him  as  the  centre  of  local  excitement.  For 
there  is  nothing  dearer  to  the  heart  of  the 
Gutter  than  the  passing  bell,  or  one  mysteri- 
ous visitation  of  the  Last  Comer. 

I  stood  in  a  road  fringed  with  bobbing 
rows  of  Gutter-babies,  and  we  were  all  star- 
ing at  the  great  red-brick  Fort  of  the  Salva- 

80 


How  the  Gutter-Babies  Go 

tion  Army,  as  it  loomed  before  us  with  its 
long  flight  of  wide  stone  steps.  At  my  elbow 
Johnny  dodged  and  bothered  and  damned 
the  universe,  because  he  could  not  see  when 
there  was  nothing  to  be  seen,  and  all  about 
us  in  front  and  behind  surged  an  hysterical 
crowd  talking  volubly  of  the  boy  who  had 
died. 

Only  last  week  he  had  been  a  white-faced, 
overworked  grocer's  assistant,  of  no  particu- 
lar interest  to  anyone  except  the  widowed 
mother  and  the  family  of  brothers  and  sisters 
whom  he  supported.  Now  he  was  a  hero,  and 
the  sympathy  of  the  Gutter  had  gathered 
about  his  memory. 

No  one  had  cared  when  he  turned  up  the 
collar  of  his  thin  coat  and  coughed  as  he  went 
out  to  his  work  in  the  morning,  and  nobody 
worried  much  when  he  tossed  and  moaned  in 
his  fever,  and  the  doctor  ordered  things  that 
could  not  be  got  for  him. 

But  now  he  was  a  hero,  and  soon  every 
head  would  be  bared  to  him  and  every  hand- 
kerchief wet  for  him,  and  every  heart  would 
go  out  to  him,  and  all  because  he  slept  with 

81 


Gutter-Babies 

his  tired  hands  idle  beneath  the  cornet  and 
military  cap  and  the  white  flowers  that 
crowned  his  coffin. 

"A  pore  good-livin'  young  feller  he  was, 
took  off  sudden  without  a  note  of  warning 
in  a  gallopin'  consumption!" 

So  they  waited  and  stared  to  see  the  poor 
body  passed  out  under  the  Flag  through  that 
dreadful  hush  of  the  silenced  Gutter. 

"  I  seed  his  little  whistle! "  shrieked  Johnny. 

The  bobbing  plumes  of  the  horses,  the 
bright  uniform  of  his  comrades,  and  the 
winding  serpent  of  the  singing  women  with 
their  white  ribbons  fluttering  were  wiped  out 
of  sight  by  a  sudden  turn  in  the  road,  and  the 
crowd  dispersed  lingeringly. 

The  Gutter-babies  have  crossed  them- 
selves and  said  their  prayers,  and  now  they 
will  go  softly  about  their  play  all  the  after- 
noon, and  to-night  will  cuddle  closer  together 
as  they  dream  of  the  boy  who  died. 

But  the  widow  and  the  wailing  family  will 
come  back  from  the  cemetery  presently,  and 
there  will  be  ham  for  tea,  and  perhaps  later 
on  local  talent  will  provide  a  little  music,  for 

82 


How  the  Gutter-Babies  Go 

the  insurance  has  been  drawn  out  and  now 
they  must  dance  and  sing  till  daybreak,  and 
drink  to  the  boy  who  died. 

Earn  was  going  to  do  this  tremendous 
thing;  he  lay  in  his  little  bed  with  sunken 
cheeks  and  staring  eyes  and  his  nostrils  work- 
ing hard  as  he  fought  for  five  minutes  more 
of  the  Gutter  life  he  had  loved. 

"Double  pommonia,  that's  it,"  said  his 
mother  with  an  apron  to  her  eye,  "and  he 
such  a  pride,  and  no  'opes  of  him  now,  and 
his  brother  will  fret  his  heart  out,  they  ain't 
never  been  parted.  The  Lord  knows  I  did  my 
best.  But  what  can  you  expect  of  seven 
months?" 

So  Earn  left  us. 

Only  I  (known  always  now  in  the  family 
circle  as  the  young  person  who  witnessed  our 
"pore  Earn's  going-off"),  and  I  suppose  the 
priest  who  held  up  his  little  shriven  soul  to 
meet  the  Last  Comer,  knew  that  Earn  had 
sacrificed  himself  to  a  myth.  But  the  Gutter 
canonized  him  all  the  same.  He  would  never 
be  called  a  lying  little  hound  again,  and 
months  would  not  count  for  much  in  that 

83 


Gutter-Babies 

new  place  where  Earn  must  achieve  man- 
hood. To-morrow  Alf  will  be  bragging  about 
his  twin  brother  in  Heaven,  and  Johnny  will 
discuss  eschatology  in  detail,  and  the  Gutter- 
babies  will  wonder  and  dream  and  quickly 
forget  that  the  Last  Comer  has  been  so 
near  to  them. 

There  will  be  Mass  of  the  Holy  Angels,  and 
prayers,  and  gay  flowers,  and  perhaps  later 
a  painted  window  in  the  singers'  gallery  paid 
for  by  Gutter-babies'  pennies,  but  few  tears 
for  the  Gutter-baby  that  died.  For  the  prob- 
lem of  Earn's  mother  has  been  solved  at  last 
and  this  was  the  best  —  perhaps  the  only 
way  —  for  a  Seven  Months  to'  grow  up. 
Anyway,  what  else  could  you  expect? 

There  are  of  course  other  modes  of  exit 
for  Gutter-babies.  The  hooters  proclaimed 
one  o'clock  loudly,  as  turning  homeward  one 
morning  after  a  long  round,  I  met  all  the 
Gutter-babies  scampering  round  a  corner  in 
a  panic,  breathless  and  round-eyed  with 
fear. 

"Run!  run!"  screamed  Johnny,  as  he  fled 
past  me,  apparently  for  his  life. 

84 


'  Run  !  run  I '  screamed  Johnny 


How  the  Gutter-Babies  Go 

"The  Kidnapper's  in  our  street!" 

An  imposing  and  dignified  person  in  uni- 
form was  approaching.  He  had  shrewd  kindly 
eyes  and  a  soft  manner,  and  he  enquired  for 
one  Murphy. 

Defiant  mothers  turned  up  their  sleeves  to 
be  ready  for  him,  and  loafing  fathers  watched 
his  steady  progress  maliciously,  and  still  he 
continued  to  search  persistently  for  the  home 
of  the  Murphies,  for  no  one  seemed  willing 
to  further  such  a  quest.  Behind  came  the 
patter  of  Johnny's  bare  feet;  he  had  pulled 
himself  together  and  returned  to  see  the  fun 
under  my  protection.  But  there  was  more 
than  curiosity  in  his  eager  whisper. 

"  Don't  let  him  have  my  Mary,  the  thievin' 
bounder;  she's  walkin'  out  with  me  on 
Sunday!" 

And  he  disappeared  as  swiftly  and  cun- 
ningly as  he  had  come. 

Meanwhile  the  Kidnapper  had  found  his 
man. 

He  went  up  the  steps  of  number  nine  and 
knocked  irritably,  then  he  descended  to  the 
area  and  did  not  knock,  but  walked  straight 

85 


Gutter-Babies 

in,  and  I  know  what  he  found,  for  I  had  been 
there  first. 

He  found  an  evil-smelling  underground 
hovel  with  a  few  sticks  of  furniture,  and  live 
things  clinging  to  the  walls  and  prancing 
about  the  floor,  and  in  the  midst  an  imbecile 
man,  unshaven  and  half-dressed,  and  two 
infant  boys,  the  eldest  scarce  able  to  crawl, 
and  they  were  all  waiting  dismally.  A  charit- 
ably disposed  person  had  made  an  attempt 
at  feeding  them  from  a  cup  of  Quaker  Oats, 
and  the  biggest  and  most  helpless  baby  was 
the  idiot  father.  He  saw  this  and  shuddered, 
but  he  did  not  find  Johnny's  Mary.  For  she 
was  sitting  curled  up  in  my  armchair  playing 
with  a  doll  just  where  I  had  left  her  when  she 
came  to  tell  me  that  "Mummy  had  gone 
away  with  the  gentleman  upstairs,  and  please 
would  I  come  at  once." 

When  the  Kidnapper  is  about,  somebody 
has  to  hold  the  Gutter-babies  very  fast  if  we 
do  not  want  them  to  go. 


CHAPTER  XI 

The  Minding  of  a  Gutter-Baby 

SOMETHING  had  happened  to  the  place 
where  I  lived.  The  going-out  of  it  was 
attended  with  vague  regrets  and  the 
coming-in  was  full  of  exquisite  and  thrill- 
ing excitement.  The  familiar  features  of  the 
shabby  rooms  had  ceased  to  be  inanimate  mat- 
ter. The  distempered  walls  seemed  friendly 
and  affectionate,  and  no  longer  bald  patches 
where  prints  and  books  might  live  and  ac- 
cumulate. Small  ornaments  in  their  accus- 
tomed places  developed  a  distinct  personal- 
ity. A  hole  in  the  rug,  a  portion  of  the  door 
from  which  the  paint  had  been  removed  by 
a  Gutter-  baby's  boot,  a  discoloured  patch 
on  the  ceiling,  where  Johnny  had  played  pat- 
ball  with  an  over-ripe  orange,  aroused  in  me 
kindly  feelings.  And  the  secret  of  my  initia- 
tion into  this  unaccustomed  atmosphere  was 
the  coming  of  Mary. 

For  tucked  away  in  this  new  place  that 
87 


Gutter-Babies 

had  so  suddenly  and  sweetly  become  a  home, 
in  a  little  camp-bed  arranged  for  its  own 
special  convenience,  a  real,  live  Gutter-baby 
slept  and  smiled. 

The  small  change  in  my  domestic  affairs 
had  miraculously  affected  the  whole  universe, 
and  earth  and  heaven  were  new  because  Mary 
had  come  to  me.  The  heart  of  that  life, 
which,  with  its  ache  and  pain,  and  intensity 
of  tears  and  laughter,  lay  outside  the  individ- 
ualism of  a  lonely  tramp,  called  and  beckoned 
to  me  now.  This  warm  spring  morning,  I  was 
a  part  of  things,  in  tune  with  the  hum  of  the 
city,  in  sympathy  with  the  crowding  souls 
about  me  and  their  lofty  interests.  For  it 
mattered  to  me  also  tremendously  if  the  rain 
kept  off,  if  the  price  of  bread  went  up  or 
down,  if  a  meal  were  late,  or  an  egg  bad  or 
good,  for  I  too  had  great  possessions,  a  baby 
and  a  home. 

But  as  I  peeped  and  held  my  breath  and 
peeped  again,  upon  my  shocked  and  para- 
lysed intelligence  there  flashed  suddenly  the 
tremendous  problem  of  the  minding  of  Mary. 
I  could  think  of  no  one,  even  in  the  inner 

88 


The  Minding  of  a  Gutter-Baby 

circle  of  highly  critical  friends  and  relations, 
who  would  be  at  all  likely  to  assist  me  in  such 
an  extremity.  Of  course  one  knew  people 
who  kept  pigs  and  poultry  and  colonies  of 
spotted  mice,  but  everybody  drew  the  line 
at  Gutter-babies.  In  the  whole  vast  library 
of  current  literature  I  could  think  of  nothing 
that  dealt  with  the  subject.  "Hints  to  Mo- 
thers" only  reminded  me  with  a  new  pang 
that  I  was  an  impostor,  and  there  was  a  sig- 
nificant silence  about  Gutter-babies  among 
the  things  women  should  know.  I  began  to 
be  almost  ashamed  and  fearful  of  my  unique 
position.  But  at  this  point  Mary  awoke,  and 
having  unburdened  me  of  my  uneasy  secret, 
decided  the  whole  matter  once  for  all  by 
explaining  that  what  was  necessary  to  the 
proper  nutrition  and  education  of  Mary,  she 
herself  would  certainly  know,  and  would  as 
certainly  demand;  a  self-confidence  which 
the  subsequent  methods  of  Mary  entirely 
justified. 

But  as  Mary  lay  sweetly  sleeping  while  the 
hours  crept  slowly  into  dawn,  dim  doubts 
and  fears  chased  themselves  in  a  flying  pro- 

89 


Gutter-Babies 

cession  through  my  tired  brain.  Was  it  pos- 
sible to  spoil  Mary?  One  often  heard  of 
spoilt  children,  but  how  was  it  done?  Of 
course  I  had  seen  Gutter-babies  spoiled  in 
different  ways  —  a  little  girl  with  her  nose 
smashed  in  by  a  drunken  father's  blow  — 
Gutter-babies  who  had  been  taught  to  lie 
and  shop-lift,  who  had  big  pockets  stitched 
inside  their  small  frocks,  Gutter-babies  with 
scarred  faces  and  broken  limbs.  But  were 
these  the  only  dangers  to  be  avoided  in  the 
minding  of  Mary?  Might  she  be  kissed  too 
often  or  fed  too  well  or  loved  too  dearly? 

In  the  morning  Mary  would  tell  me,  for  she 
would  be  sure  to  know.  But  before  the  first 
bird  had  sung  to  the  first  sunbeam,  before 
the  light  had  been  able  to  wake  me  through 
the  shuttered  window,  the  patter  of  small 
pink  feet,  the  fierce  embrace  of  little  arms, 
the  warm  and  vigorous  kiss  of  Mary  assured 
me  that  there  was  to  be,  at  least,  no  dry 
level  of  benevolence  in  this  new  life. 

Gradually  the  minding  of  her  settled  down 
into  a  peculiarly  simple  affair.  The  bath  was 
the  scene  of  our  one  real  quarrel. 

90 


The  Minding  of  a  Gutter-Baby 

"We  don't  wash  of  a  mornin',"  said  Mary, 
and  stuck  to  it  valiantly  in  spite  of  threats 
and  persuasions.  After  a  long  and  exhausting 
discussion,  for  I  could  not  ignore  the  fact 
that,  in  spite  of  the  vigorous  scrubbing  of  the 
previous  evening,  daylight  betrayed  that  our 
efforts  had  been  superficial,  and  a  great  deal 
still  remained  to  come  off,  we  came  to  terms. 

"  I  will,  if  I  'as  jam  on  my  dinner  piece!" 

Mary  emerged  pink  and  hungry  from  the 
soapsuds.  ' '  Wants  me  breakfus' ! ' '  she  stated. 
"Give  me  a  penny!" 

The  penny  was  produced,  and  Mary  pat- 
tered across  the  road  to  the  opposite  stores, 
where  everything  in  Gutterland  can  be  bought 
in  the  same  department  at  popular  prices. 

She  returned  with  a  drop  of  thin  milk  in  a 
cup,  a  few  lumps  of  sugar,  and  an  armful  of 
stale  bread. 

I  watched  her  preparations  for  this  frugal 
meal  with  some  interest.  Having  fetched  a 
saucepan  from  the  kitchen,  with  small  inde- 
pendent and  capable  hands  she  poured  the 
contents  of  the  cup  into  it,  and  sat  down  to 
watch  it  warm  on  the  fire. 


Gutter-Babies 

"I  likes  a  'ot  breakfus',"  she  explained  as 
she  continued  her  preparations  eagerly.  From 
time  to  time  she  put  out  a  busy  finger  and 
stirred  the  milk  gently.  When  it  had  reached 
the  required  temperature,  she  drank  it  out 
of  the  saucepan  with  evident  enjoyment, 
throwing  in  bits  of  bread,  and  gnawing  at  the 
dry  crusts. 

"This  will  last  me  through  the  mornin'," 
she  informed  me.  And  so  I  learned  my  first 
lesson  in  the  feeding  of  a  Gutter-baby. 

The  next  important  consideration  was  the 
clothing  of  the  little  body.  Clothes  may  be  a 
ridiculous  habit,  invented  in  the  first  place 
for  the  indulgence  of  personal  vanity  which 
desires  to  add  to  individual  attraction  by  a 
slight  variation  from  type,  yet  in  spite  of  this 
Mary's  appearance  as  we  took  our  first  walk 
abroad  irritated  me  excessively. 

What  would  the  Gutter  be  without  "rags 
and  tatters"?  But  one  does  not  care  to  be 
responsible  for  the  disreputable  condition  of 
one  of  the  picturesque  little  people. 

So  we  bought  a  wardrobe  for  Mary.  There 
were  strange  little  soft  pink  garments,  that 

92 


The  Minding  of  a  Gutter-Baby 

made  Mary  first  wonder  and  smile  and  after- 
wards swear  and  wriggle  with  discomfort,  and 
there  were  new  boots  that  pinched  and 
creaked ;  but  the  only  thing  that  Mary  really 
cared  about  and  that  made  her  forget  every- 
thing else  was  a  little  brown  fur  cap,  which 
she  saw  in  the  window,  marked  one  and  eleven 
pence. 

"Buy  it!  Buy  it!"  she  insisted;  and  when  it 
was  given  to  her  she  hugged  and  kissed  it 
continuously,  murmuring  in  ecstasy  to  its 
unresponsive  soul,  "Oh,  my  dear  pussy!" 

Later,  I  bitterly  regretted  the  episode  of 
the  fur  cap,  and  fierce  flames  of  jealousy  con- 
sumed me.  I  was  forgotten,  and  all  Mary's 
devotion  and  caresses  extravagantly  be- 
stowed upon  this  inanimate  and  shapeless 
skin.  Even  at  night  it  was  not  thrown  aside, 
and  the  eccentric  appearance  of  Mary  asleep, 
with  her  curls  still  framed  in  fur,  might  have 
been  humorous  if  I  had  not  felt  it  to  be 
tragic. 

But  the  minding  of  Mary,  with  its  many 
strange  lessons  and  its  ever  increasing  initia- 
tion into  the  ways  and  habits  of  a  Gutter- 

93 


Gutter-Babies 

baby,  was  an  absorbing  occupation  in  which 
one  would  have  gladly  spent  many  lives  and 
asked  greedily  for  more. 

It  was  left  to  the  loyal  and  faithful  Johnny 
to  bring  back  the  wandering  affections  of 
Mary.  He  came  in  one  morning  with  a  filthy 
mongrel  puppy  yapping  feebly  in  his  arms. 

"  'E  's  a  pore  orphan! "  he  said  mournfully; 
"never  'ad  neither  father  nor  mother,  pore 
little  feller,  an'  now  'e'll  'ave  a  good  *ome!" 
I  did  not  like  the  arrangement,  but  Mary 
did,  and  the  orphan  made  himself  at  home  at 
once.  His  pleasure  became  gradually  more 
and  more  demonstrative  and  violent  as  he 
chased  us  excitedly  round  the  room,  working 
himself  up  into  that  ecstatic  abandonment  of 
joy  which  only  the  dumb  things  seem  to  know. 
Suddenly  with  a  delighted  yelp  he  attacked 
the  enemy.  Johnny  and  I  made  heroic  efforts 
at  rescue,  but  I  think  we  all  knew  from  the 
first  that  the  fate  of  Mary's  pussy  was  sealed. 
The  orphan  remained  with  us  for  the  rest  of 
his  life.  To  the  Gutter-babies  he  was  a  gentle 
and  sympathetic  playmate,  and  they  wept 
for  him  bitterly  when  he  was  run  over  by  a 

94 


The  Minding  of  a  Gutter-Baby 

milk-cart  a  few  days  later.  But  we  had  no 
more  pussies. 

One  cannot  tell  what  might  have  been  the 
development  of  this  joyous  environment  if 
Mary  had  stayed  to  cultivate  it,  but  this  did 
not  happen. 

Months  passed,  during  which  my  Gutter- 
baby  fitted  herself  securely  into  the  small 
corner  of  our  home  life.  I  had  tuned  my  ears 
to  the  clatter  of  her  little  boots  as  she  came 
in  from  school,  and  strung  my  nerves  to  the 
shrill  greeting  of  her  cheery  voice  calling 
eagerly  for  "Miss."  I  had  come  to  realise  at 
last  that  certain  portions  of  the  day  belonged 
to  her.  The  solid  dinner  and  the  pleasures  of 
our  simple  table  must  be  permitted  entirely  to 
absorb  and  monopolise  my  attention  between 
twelve  and  two ;  and  the  time  after  tea  until 
Mary's  uncertain  retiring  hour  was  indisput- 
ably hers  also. 

Gradually  and  almost  imperceptibly  a 
subtle  transformation  was  making  for  us  a 
new  Mary.  Her  language  as  she  skipped 
about  her  play,  or  kicked  her  ball  along  the 
Gutter  with  Johnny  was  much  less  shock- 

95 


Gutter-Babies 

ingly  eloquent,  and  she  had  ceased  to  horrify 
society  and  endanger  her  own  life  by  eating 
off  the  edge  of  her  knife.  She  had  begun  to 
be  minutely  interested  in  the  arrangement  of 
her  black  curls,  and  with  huge  physical 
efforts,  accompanied  by  abnormal  sighs  and 
violent  breathing  exercises,  to  introduce  the 
letter  "H"  into  her  vocabulary.  Psychically 
there  may  have  been  some  small  advance  in 
Mary  since  the  day  of  her  first  attendance  at 
Mass,  when  after  five  minutes'  patient  endur- 
ance she  appealed  to  me  wearily,  "Please, 
I 'm  very  sick  of  this!" 

But  Johnny  had  already  begun  to  watch 
her  with  secret  disapproval.  She  was  under 
the  suspicion  of  Guttergarten.  For  she  was 
no  longer  quite  one  of  us,  and  where  was  it  all 
going  to  end?  Slowly  I  began  to  realise  what 
had  happened.  I  had  caught  a  Gutter-baby, 
but  in  the  taming  of  it  I  had  lost  it,  and  in- 
stead I  was  rearing  as  a  changeling  that  social 
derelict,  the  outsider  and  the  bounder.  In  the 
most  effectual  and  hopeless  way  of  all,  I  had 
succeeded  in  spoiling  Mary.  But  the  fate 
that  rules  the  destinies  of  Gutter-babies  was 

96 


The  Minding  of  a  Gutter-Baby 

not  so  easily  cheated,  and  the  Gutter  was  not 
long  in  claiming  its  own. 

I  can  remember  the  occasion  well.  It  was 
in  the  middle  of  our  play-hour  after  tea,  and 
Mary  was  dancing  to  her  shadow  on  the  wall, 
when  a  message  from  the  Infirmary  came  to 
summon  me.  I  was  in  time  to  find  Murphy 
conscious.  He  lay  propped  up  on  pillows, 
dying  fast,  with  his  sad  wild  eyes  full  of  pain. 
But  he  had  something  to  say  to  me  first.  He 
recognised  me  with  the  last  flicker  of  his  sink- 
ing intelligence. 

"'Ullo,  mate,"  he  said.  I  suppose  it  was 
sweet  to  see,  even  in  that  moment  when  the 
unknown  was  disclosing  its  great  mystery, 
a  familiar  face  from  the  old  Gutter-life  that 
had  cast  him  off.  And  then  his  weakness  and 
pain  reasserted  itself,  and  he  became  queru- 
lous. 

"I  ain't  never  done  no  wrong  to  no  one, 
and  now  I'm  dyin',"  whined  the  imbecile; 
and  then,  remembering  his  motive  in  sending 
for  me,  "You  ain't  forgot  'er?"  he  said,  allud- 
ing to  his  faithless  woman.  "She  runned 
away  with  the  feller  upstairs;  she  don't  worry 

97 


Gutter-Babies 

after  me  no  more,  nor  the  kids;  it'll  be  the 
'Ouse  for  them,  that's  about  it.  But  when 
the  boys  goes,  says  I,  Mary  goes  too;  I  won't 
'ave  'er  playin'  me  lady  and  'er  brothers  in 
the  'Ouse,  so  they  all  got  to  go,  see?  Their 
Grandma '11  fix  it  up.  Now,  none  of  yer 
bleedin'  games;  I'll  turn  in  me  blasted corfin 
first!" 

It  was  no  use  reasoning  with  this  poor  dis- 
ordered brain  in  the  last  effort  to  secure  jus- 
tice for  its  deserted  progeny.  So  I  left  him  to 
die,  this  worn-out  child  that  the  Gutter  had 
never  been  able  to  nurse  into  a  man. 

It  was  not  long  before  that  mighty  Moloch 
of  the  State  swallowed  up  Mary  before  my 
eyes.  She  did  not  go  without  some  reluct- 
ance, "I  want  me  brothers  bad,"  she  said 
wistfully,  "and  I  suppose  there's  lots  of  child- 
ren there  to  play  with,  but  I  'opes  they'll 
give  me  me  bellyful  to  eat;  I  should  n't  'arf 
miss  it  now." 

So  she  went  out  of  our  life,  and  Johnny 
said  it  was  better  so.  "  'Er  were  n't  no  good," 
he  said;  "too  much  of  'er  mother  in  'er  fer 
me."  And  then,  with  a  kindly  wish  to  com- 

98 


The  Minding  of  a  Gutter-Baby 

fort  me,  he  added,  "Yer  little  Johnny  loves 
yer  still." 

But  among  the  numerous  instructive  acci- 
dents and  illuminating  observations  of  Gutter 
experience,  I  made  a  mental  note  of  this  im- 
portant fragment  of  science.  A  Gutter-baby 
is  not  a  domestic  pet,  and  when  caught 
deteriorates  rapidly  in  the  process  of  civiliza- 
tion. 


CHAPTER  XII 

A  Grandmother  in  Guttergarten 

THERE  is  one  person  who  has  in 
recent  years  completely  reorganised 
her  position  in  Guttergarten.  From 
an  habitual  state  of  homeless  poverty  and 
helpless  appeal,  and  an  uncertain  livelihood 
of  swindling  and  beggary,  she  has  risen  lately 
to  a  condition  of  respectable  affluence  and 
absolute  independence.  She  is,  in  fact,  the 
only  person  in  Guttergarten  who  has  private 
means,  and  blessed  is  the  household  which 
entertains  a  Grandmother.  It  is  true  that 
the  day  has  come  at  last  when  she  may  no 
longer  use  those  wrinkled  hands,  so  worn  and 
hardened  with  the  merciless  battle  of  a  life's 
struggle  for  existence.  That  day  of  weakness 
and  failure,  so  cruelly  feared  in  the  past  and 
so  bravely  postponed  from  week  to  week, 
through  those  alarming  years  of  backache 
and  depression  and  swiftly  increasing  incom- 
petence, has  come  at  last  to  the  Grandmother, 

100 


A  Grandmother  in  Guttergarten 

and,  after  all,  it  was  only  in  the  foretaste  that 
it  was  bitter;  and  now  the  Grandmother  sits 
in  her  own  chair,  set  like  a  throne  in  the  joy- 
less home  of  her  son-in-law,  with  folded  hands 
and  placid,  smiling  lips,  a  dignified  and  con- 
sciously welcome  guest.  It  may  have  been  a 
little  hard,  perhaps,  to  turn  up  her  sleeves 
over  the  bones  of  those  withered  arms  for  the 
last  time  among  her  mates,  but  the  tear  of 
farewell  had  scarcely  started  on  its  way  along 
the  furrows  in  those  shrunken  cheeks  before 
it  must  suddenly  evaporate  in  the  sunny 
atmosphere  of  the  Grandmother's  birthday 
congratulations. 

She  was  just  seventy  to-day. 

Through  the  open  window  of  her  one- 
roomed  attic  home,  which  also  sheltered  her 
granddaughter,  Lizzie,  who  had  lately  been 
crowded  out  by  her  Gutter-baby  brothers 
and  sisters,  ascended  the  sudden  tumult  of 
the  street,  as  a  semi-clothed  and  scarcely 
awakened  humanity  tumbled  out  of  warm 
beds  to  battle  against  the  sharp  and  bluster- 
ing wind  on  their  way  to  work.  For  the 
Gutter-world  was  about  again. 

101 


Gutter-Babies 

The  reiteration  of  a  long  enforced  habit 
soon  stirred  the  heavy  lids  and  feeble  ener- 
gies of  the  Grandmother,  and  presently  she 
awoke.  She  was  quite  alone,  for  the  curl- 
pin  decorated  head  of  Lizzie,  though  much 
against  its  will,  had  long  been  lifted  from 
the  pillow  beside  her.  There  had  been  few 
moments  in  the  Grandmother's  experience  so 
free  from  human  correspondence,  so  full  of 
this  great  silence  and  refreshment.  The 
strange  new  atmosphere  had  hidden  in  it  al- 
most a  sting  of  pain,  and  she  listened  with  a 
secret  pleasure  to  the  steady  purposed  tread  of 
that  procession  of  toilers  in  the  street  below, 
and  began  to  wonder  if  they  were  all  as  tired 
as  she  was.  Involuntarily  she  stretched  out 
those  worn  hands  of  hers,  with  their  dreadful 
story  of  slavish  struggles  and  anxious  compe- 
tition written  in  the  seamed  and  horny  palms 
and  registered  fatally  in  each  knotted  joint 
and  enlarged  knuckle.  And  now  she  was  to 
realise  at  last  that  they  had  won  their  ease. 
To-day  she  might  lie  while  the  late  sunbeams 
played  about  her  pillows,  heedless  or  defiant 
through  the  shrill  warning  of  other  people's 

1 02 


A  Grandmother  in  Guttergarten 

alarm-clocks  and  the  merciless  din  of  hooters. 
For  the  Sunday  of  a  Grandmother's  life  had 
come  to  her. 

Yet  it  was  intolerable  to  have  abandoned 
her  place  in  the  grinding  machinery  of  the 
Gutter-market;  bitter  to  be  cast  off  by  this 
toiling  life  of  oppression  and  pain,  in  which 
she  had  lived  so  heartily,  and  to  which  all  the 
children  of  the  Gutter  cling  so  tenaciously. 
Only  yesterday  she  had  felt  its  grip  upon  her 
body,  had  been  almost  fainting  under  the 
lash  of  its  rigorous  and  exacting  cruelty.  For 
since  her  superannuation  at  the  laundry,  the 
Grandmother  had  taken  in  other  people's 
Gutter-babies  to  mind,  and  it  had  been  a 
very  strenuous  occupation.  The  cunning 
and  unprincipled  Gutter-babies  took  an  un- 
fair advantage  of  her  genuine  and  overscru- 
pulous anxiety  to  please  the  hot,  tired  mothers 
when  they  dropped  in  one  by  one  at  feeding- 
times.  And  as  soon  as  they  could  lisp,  they 
told  of  those  secret  moral  lapses  of  the  Grand- 
mother so  deeply  impressed  upon  their  little 
minds  by  the  spiteful  slaps  of  her  exhausted 
patience.  For  it  is  an  unspoken  rule  in  Gutter- 

103 


Gutter-Babies 

garten  that  you -must  not  "pay"  anyone's 
Gutter-baby  except  your  own. 

But  to-day  the  Gutter-babies  were  all  more 
or  less  feebly  protesting  against  the  minis- 
trations of  some  attentive  stranger,  and  there 
would  be  no  loud-voiced  women  calling  up 
the  stairs  to  her,  to  relieve  them  of  their  liv- 
ing bundles. 

"Mrs.  'Ammond,  jes'  give  an  eye  to  my 
Cissie  while  I  goes  to  the  Baths  with  me  bits." 

The  Grandmother  began  to  feel  lonely. 

Here  was  peace  after  battle;  but  the  proud 
spirit  of  the  old  war-horse  was  pawing  the 
air;  and  yet  how  weary  were  those  stiff  and 
rheumatic  limbs  as  she  turned  again  to  her 
slumber.  Had  they  ever  seemed  so  weary 
before?  A  morbid  shadow  flitted  across  the 
Grandmother's  dream.  She  was  thinking  of 
her  sweetheart.  For  he  had  been  called  away 
from  her  side  before  he  could  draw  even  the 
first  instalment  of  his  pension,  and  it  was  so 
lonely  to  be  a  Grandmother  without  a  sweet- 
heart. And  then  it  was  that  the  last  Play- 
mate arrived  just  at  the  psychological  mo- 
ment, when  the  hours  of  the  Grandmother's 

104 


A  Grandmother  in  Guttergarten 

life  were  rushing  up  towards  the  measureless 
reality;  that  Playmate  who  was  never  to 
desert  her,  whose  echoing  song  was  earth's 
sweetest  music,  and  the  magic  of  whose  touch 
peopled  naked  monotony  with  an  immortal 
society.  There  he  was,  the  ghost  of  That- 
which-has-been,  astride  on  the  high-backed 
chair  where  the  Grandmother  had  long  ago 
nursed  her  own  Gutter-babies,  which  had  been 
so  tenderly  set  in  its  place  to  await  the  coming 
of  the  sweetheart,  where  later  on  in  the  cate- 
gory of  time  she  knitted  a  perpetual  sock, 
and  supervised  the  recreation  of  the  third 
generation.  And  thus  he  came  to  her,  the 
friend  of  the  extreme  need,  with  the  profound 
sympathy  of  his  superhuman  correspondence. 

And  he  alone  could  speak  her  language, 
and  his  people  were  indeed  'most  peculiarly 
her  people.  And  so  the  Grandmother  passed 
into  her  new  home,  and  sat  on  the  old  chair, 
where  this  ghostly  rider  perched  and  chat- 
tered in  the  joyless  shadows  of  the  son-in- 
law's  kitchen. 

About  her  footstool  the  younger  portion  of 
her  Lizzie's  abundant  family  quarrelled  and 

105 


Gutter-Babies 

bit  at  each  other  and  spilled  their  scanty  din- 
ners. And  somewhere  in  the  mysterious 
region  just  beyond  the  horizon  of  her  dimmed 
spectacles,  the  blurred  vision  of  the  elder 
Lizzie's  patient  face  looked  at  her  full  of 
gratitude. 

" Mother,  it's  such  a  'elp  to  'ave  your  little 
bit  comin'  in  to-day." 

And  it  was  a  proud  moment  when  the  news- 
boy Billy  came  in  clumsily,  to  ask  in  deep 
confusion  if  Grannie  could  just  lend  him  a 
trifle  to  tide  him  over  the  week.  It  was  to  her, 
as  a  matter  of  course,  that  the  little  ones 
came  clamouring  for  pennies  on  Saturdays, 
when  Daddy  was  out  of  work  and  their 
raging  thirst  for  ice  cream  or  jumbled  toffee 
became  intolerable.  And  when  Teddie  sat 
at  home  crying  forlornly  because  his  boots 
were  gone  on  Monday  morning,  and  he  was 
losing  a  medal  by  his  absence  from  school, 
it  was  the  Grandmother  again  that  came  to 
the  rescue. 

It  is,  indeed,  little  to  be  wondered  at,  then, 
that  there  had  been  so  fierce  a  competition 
among  the  independent  members  of  the  fam- 

106 


A  Grandmother  in  Guttergarten 

ily  circle  for  the  privilege  of  offering  hospi- 
tality to  the  Grandmother.  There  had  once 
been  a  time  when  the  Grandmother,  looking 
forward  to  the  coming  fortune,  had  planned 
to  live  on  in  the  sweet  solitude  of  the  little 
attic  home.  But  the  white  despairing  face 
of  the  elder  Lizzie,  and  the  pitiful  recital  of 
her  suffering  and  wrongs,  quickly  dissipated 
this  self-centred  scheme.  It  is  to  be  hoped 
that  her  splendid  welcome  and  royal  position 
of  benefactress,  as  she  readily  disembarrassed 
herself  each  week  of  her  earthly  possessions, 
cast  about  her  an  aura  of  beatitude  which 
somehow  compensated  to  her  for  the  turmoil 
and  discomfort  of  the  son-in-law's  hospital- 
ity. Amid  the  wailing  of  neglected  and  undis- 
ciplined Gutter-babies,  and  the  peevish  gos- 
sip of  the  elder  Lizzie,  and  the  drunken  furies 
of  the  son-in-law  —  amid  all  the  confusion 
and  chaos  of  Gutter  domesticity  the  Grand- 
mother passed  her  last  days  with  the  Play- 
mate. 

Utterly  deaf  and  nearly  blind,  the  Grand- 
mother was  now  almost  quite  unresponsive 
to  the  world  of  sense.  Her  little  shrunken 

107 


Gutter-Babies 

figure  rocked  itself  backwards  and  forwards 
on  the  old  chair,  as  her  fingers  flew  automati- 
cally over  the  perpetual  sock,  and  into  its 
bottomless  capacity,  as  the  stitches  accumu- 
lated under  the  clicking  needles,  was  slowly 
collecting  all  the  humorous  philosophy  and 
tender  wit  of  the  merry  ghost  of  "That- 
which-has-been."  It  was  now  scarcely  pos- 
sible for  any  human  being  to  hold  correspond- 
ence with  her.  Head  and  heart  and  hand  were 
pledged  to  the  Playmate,  and  he  was  off  on 
some  mad  venture  through  his  fairyland  of 
ghostly  memory  beyond  the  consciousness  of 
matter  and  mind. 

Yet  at  times  the  ghost  of  "  That-which-has- 
been"  had  strange  psychic  stirrings  and  dim 
religious  yearnings  in  the  depths  of  his  being. 

Then  they  would  send  imperatively  for 
the  Gutter  Parson.  But  the  mystery  of  his 
communications  with  the  Grandmother,  and 
those  shadowy  confidences  which  reached 
him  from  the  ghostly  land,  are  buried  now 
with  the  Gutter  Parson's  genius  for  human 
correspondence. 

It  was  about  six  months  after  the  great 
108 


A  Grandmother  in  Guttergarten 

birthday,  I  should  think,  that  these  three 
friends,  the  Grandmother,  the  Playmate,  and 
the  Gutter  Parson  met  for  the  last  time  on 
earth. 

She  had  not  been  able  to  feel  us  near  her 
all  day. 

On  her  lips  was  set  that  meaningless  and 
mirthless  smile  which  the  ghostly  companion 
had  frozen  there,  and  on  her  tired  face  grey 
shadows  had  deepened.  Her  fingers  had  been 
much  less  active  than  usual,  and  the  perpet- 
ual sock,  with  its  wide  content  of  mystery, 
hung  collapsed  upon  her  bosom. 

11  She  ain't  near  so  well  to-day,  are  yer, 
Grannie?"  said  the  elder  Lizzie,  in  answer  to 
all  enquiries,  but  no  word  reached  the  Grand- 
mother. It  must  have  been  late  in  the  after- 
noon that  the  Gutter  Parson  came,  for  the 
three  friends  drank  tea  and  condensed  milk 
together.  It  would  be  a  little  distasteful  to 
the  Gutter  Parson,  for  I  remember  he  did  not 
sweeten  his  tea.  We  could  not  have  assisted 
at  that  strange  feast  even  then,  or  have 
mingled  in  the  secret  sympathy  of  that  won- 
derful trio,  and  now  they  have  all  passed 

109 


Gutter-Babies 

from  us  into  a  yet  more  unfathomable  reserve. 
And  so  we  must  leave  them. 

I  suppose  the  scales  which  hid  the  world 
of  sense  from  those  unenquiring  eyes  were 
never  lifted  once  during  that  seance,  and  the 
Gutter  Parson  did  not  make  his  attack 
through  the  Grandmother's  ear-trumpet,  yet 
he  set  up  an  electric  battery  of  sympathy 
somehow.  And  then  the  sign  of  his  conquest 
over  that  amazing  personality  was  her  ac- 
ceptance of  his  gift  of  tobacco. 

It  was  only  a  very  little  while  after  the 
Gutter  Parson  had  left  that  the  Grandmother 
laid  aside  her  pipe  and  fell  off  her  chair  into 
a  little  bundle  that  now  meant  nothing  at  all. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

The  Gutter  Philanthropy 

IT  sometimes  happens  that  very  good 
people  make  perilous  descents  into  the 
Gutter  with  vaguely  benevolent  inten- 
tions of  doing  something  for  the  little  Gutter- 
babies.  Perhaps  it  is  well  for  them  that  they 
realise  the  peril  quite  as  little  as  the  madness 
of  their  enterprise.  Such  efforts  are,  gener- 
ally speaking,  associated  with  inglorious  fail- 
ure. Here  in  the  Gutter  we  do  not  like  very 
good  people,  and  we  have  no  use  at  all  for 
anything  vague  and  indefinite.  We' know  so 
well  what  we  want,  and  we  want  it  desper- 
ately, we  want  it  now. 

The  tremendous  need  of  the  Gutter  is  in 
the  eternal  "at  once"  of  things,  as  once  in 
the  creature's  childhood  a  door  was  shut,  as 
once  in  the  fulness  of  time  God's  Heart  broke. 
It  is  too  great  a  thing  to  play  with.  But  the 
idle  rich  find  another  toy  for  their  restless 
wits.  For  while  they  are  congratulating  each 

in 


Gutter-Babies 

other  upon  the  effect  of  their  schemes  upon 
the  England  of  an  unborn  generation,  we 
want  our  breakfast!  And  so  the  Gutter 
teaches  its  little  ones  to  spit  in  the  faces  of 
those  they  beg  from. 

Like  good  angels  these  dear  creatures  come, 
with  plenty  of  fur  trimming  and  silk  under- 
skirts, and  kid  gloves  to  pat  the  Gutter- 
babies'  heads.  And,  oh,  that  in  their  beauti- 
ful condescension  they  might  know  how  we 
hate  them! 

"Ain't  yer  got  a  big  boa,  Miss,"  said  an 
awe-struck  factory  girl  in  the  Evening  Social, 
as  she  stroked  tenderly  a  long  serpent  of 
skinned  moles. 

"Yes,  dear!"  responded  the  visitor,  with 
rash  amiability;  "  would  you  like  to  try  it  on?  " 

"Gawd,  no,  Miss,  I  might  look  like  a 
lydy!" 

But  they  brighten  the  lives  of  the  little 
wild  people  by  affording  them  such  innocent 
amusement. 

A  small  flower-seller,  fresh  from  the  lock-up 
where  she  had  been  paying  the  penalty  of 
setting  down  her  basket  on  the  pavement,  to 

112 


The  Gutter  Philanthropy 

rest  her  tired  arms  for  one  moment,  had  just 
had  a  merry  meeting  with  one  of  them. 

"Gawd  love  yer,  Miss,"  she  said,  "did  yer 
see  'er  chuckin'  'er  weight  about  ?  I  offers  'er 
me  boot-lace  wot  I  just  took  off  for  a  copper, 
and  I  says  I  ain't  no  'ome,  nor  ain't  I,  Gawd 
knows. 

"'My  pore  gal/  says  she,  'ain't  yer  no 
reference?' 

"'No,'  says  I,  'I  bin  in  service  this  three 
year,  and  the  lydy's  dead.'  That's  wot  I 
says,  Gawd  forgive  me!  So  'er  says  ter  me, 
'Ho,'  says  she,  'well,  my  pore  gal,  I  could  n't 
'ave  yer  without  no  reference,'  and  'er  outs 
with  this  penny  and  smiles!" 

Rosie  was  homeless  at  fifteen;  her  only 
friend  was  the  loafing  boy  who  had  ruined 
her;  the  pretty  face  lifted  to  me  was  pinched 
and  piteous;  yet  she  could  sit  down  in  the 
Gutter  and  forget  everything  in  a  convulsion 
of  honest  enjoyment  over  the  bitter  irony  of 
that  philanthropic  smile! 

Meanwhile  the  good  angel  proceeds  upon 
her  benevolent  path  distributing  cautious 
pennies  and  inopportune  gaiety. 

"3 


Gutter-Babies 

At  the  end  of  the  street,  one  overhears  the 
Twins'  Mother  warning  the  yellow-haired 
Alf  against  "her  like"! 

"  I  '11  tear  the  liver  out  of  you,  if  yer  touches 
any  of  'er  dirty  chink,  so  there  now!  'er  ain't 
up  to  no  good,  enticin'  of  the  pore  children 
after 'er!" 

Long  before  the  penny  bank  has  failed,  I 
expect,  the  Gutter-babies'  attitude  will  have 
become  bold  and  defiant.  They  will  be 
pirouetting  behind  her  in  an  absurd  and  in- 
sulting caricature  of  her  "mincin'  hairs!" 
They  will  be  yelling  after  her,  "Not  in  that 
'at!"  "Wot,  all  for  the  same  money!"  And 
thus  they  will  escort  her,  even  to  the  farthest 
limits  of  Guttergarten! 

Safe  at  home  again,  the  philanthropist  is 
not  always  satisfied  with  such  a  defeat,  but 
continues  to  cherish  her  earth-reforming 
schemes,  and  presently,  perhaps,  attempts 
another  and  more  carefully  organised  attack. 
A  little  philanthropic  office  is  opened  in  a 
cautiously  selected  locality,  and  if  the  finan- 
cier is  wise,  there  should  be  behind  the  desk 
an  official  with  a  wide  experience  of  the  eccen- 

114 


The  Gutter  Philanthropy 

trie  life  and  wonderful  habits  of  the  Gutter- 
folk,  disguised  under  an  innocent  and  kindly 
exterior. 

Hastening  out  with  an  empty  dish  and  a 
sixpence  to  fetch  my  dinner  on  one  occasion 
I  met  Mrs.  Sly,  who  was  immediately  in- 
spired by  the  fleeting  vision  of  my  obvious 
errand  to  relieve  me  of  so  much  superfluous 
cash. 

"Mornin',  Miss!"  she  said;  'and  then  as  I 
reluctantly  resigned  my  place  in  the  long 
queue  outside  the  cookshop,  she  became 
lachrymose. 

''Did  yer  know  as  'ow  me  pore  Lizzie  was 
dead?"  " 

I  had  not  had  any  previous  intimation  of 
the  fact,  and  was  duly  shocked.  Lizzie  was 
one  of  the  inner  circle  of  my  friends,  a  sharp- 
tongued,  bright-faced  little  match-factory 
girl,  who  had  kept  her  parents  and  an  idle 
brother  and  her  married  sister's  family  out 
of  the  House  ever  since  she  had  been  old 
enough  to  use  her  own  busy  little  hands. 

"Yes,  Miss,  'er's  lyin'  dead  in  a  'ome  at 
Margate  this  very  minnit!  The  fun'ral's  at 


Gutter-Babies 

two,  and  I  just  come  out  ter  see  if  I  can  find 
any  money,  fer  'ow  ter  git  there  I  don't 
know!  It  seems  as  if  I  was  to  meet  you,  don't 
it,  Miss?  And  me  pore  Lizzie  'er  always 
thought  the  world  of  you,  Miss!" 

As  I  turned  away  with  an  empty  dish,  the 
church  clock  struck  one  with  a  shocking  pre- 
cision, and  I  reflected  that  the  chase  for  Liz- 
zie's funeral  would  be  a  heated  one ! 

Presently  a  string  of  girls  linked  together 
at  the  elbows  swung  round  me,  monopolising 
the  pavement,  and  from  the  centre  the  ghost 
of  Lizzie  in  splendid  material  condition 
greeted  me  noisily. 

"'Ullo,  Miss,  'ow's  yer  luck?" 

It  is  such  incidents  as  this  that  finish  off 
and  complete  the  bitter  education  of  a  Gutter 
philanthropist. 

But  the  imposition  of  the  Gutter  is  not 
frequently  so  superficial.  When  it  happens 
to  be,  it  is  a  special  insult  to  the  feeble  per- 
ception of  the  particular  victim  upon  whom 
it  is  seemingly  not  worth  while  to  waste  the 
higher  gifts  of  mendacity,  and  it  is  a  vain 
thing  to  challenge  the  matchless  repartee  of 

116 


The  Gutter  Philanthropy 

the  Gutter  tongue.  Here,  for  instance,  is 
Special  Johnny,  who  has  been  sent  to  get  in 
the  shopping,  struggling  with  the  splendid 
spoils  of  the  local  market !  One  hand  is  occu- 
pied with  part  of  an  orange  snatched  from  a 
stall  en  route,  in  the  other  is  secreted  the 
sticky  change,  and  the  rest  of  the  orange  is 
distributed  about  his  person;  a  colossal  and 
abominably  green  cabbage  is  tucked  under 
his  arm,  and  at  his  side  two  ghastly  rabbits 
dangle  unpleasantly,  and  a  parcel  of  assorted 
groceries  has  disgorged  its  contents  at  his 
feet. 

One  is  glad,  of  course,  to  be  of  any  service 
to  a  pal  in  such  difficult  circumstances,  but 
as  one  accompanies  him  homewards,  bearing 
the  least  revolting  half  of  the  treasure,  it 
occurs  to  one  that  a  basket  would  do  just  as 
well. 

"Ain't  got  no  bloody  bag!"  objected 
Johnny  sulkily. 

But  it  could  be  got  for  fourpence,  and 
Johnny  had  bruised  the  cabbage  and  lost 
half  his  groceries;  the  rabbits  had  been 
dragged  through  every  puddle,  and  I  had 

117 


Gutter-Babies 

been  led  at  least  a  quarter  of  a  mile  out  of  my 
original  course.  In  consideration  of  domestic 
economy  and  the  public  convenience,  Johnny 
ought  to  take  a  bag  when  he  went  shopping. 

"Garn!"  says  Special  Johnny;  "stop  yer 
jaw;  the  'ares  would  eat  the  greens!" 

Someone  once  suggested,  for  the  sake  of 
Blanchie's  profession,  that  her  accent  ought 
to  be  improved.  So  we  teased  her  on  the 
matter  of  vowels. 

"Can't  say  food,  can  you,  Blanchie!"  we 
jeered. 

"  I  kin  sy  fule! "  returned  Blanchie,  and  dis- 
missed the  subject. 

The  other  day  I  watched  the  return  of  a 
friend  of  mine  from  a  week-end  expedition. 
A  few  doors  from  her  destination  a  cunning 
loafer  started  in  pursuit  of  her  cab,  and  as 
she  alighted  presented  himself  in  a  panting 
and  exhausted  condition.  His  services  were 
not  required,  but  the  pathos  of  his  imagin- 
ation produced  a  small  coin  from  a  bulgy 
purse. 

"I've  er  widder  and  two  children  at  'ome, 
lydy!" 

118 


The  Gutter  Philanthropy 

Suddenly  I  observed  the  donor's  finger  and 
thumb  close  severely  over  sixpence,  as  if 
conscious  of  some  discrepancy  in  the  nar- 
rative. 

"You  silly  fellow,  how  can  your  wife  be  a 
widow?"  she  enquired  with  deep  suspicion. 

"Lydy,  'er's  me  mother,"  lied  the  scound- 
rel glibly. 

He  did  not  account  for  the  children,  but  I 
suppose  the  suspicious  person  had  had  enough 
of  him.  At  the  corner  he  turned  back  as  he 
spat  viciously  on  the  gift! 

"Thought  yer  got  me,  didn't  yer!"  he 
jeered  offensively. 

By  this  time  the  door  of  the  little  Philan- 
thropic Office  is  swinging  behind  the  first 
applicant. 

"Please,  Miss,  I  wants  er  Phropic!"  ex- 
plains a  stout  bronchial  person  with  a  baby 
in  a  fit  of  whooping-cough  under  her  arm! 
"I  lives  at  25,  in  the  Market!" 

"Oh,  come  now,"  one  says,  "I  think  there 
must  be  a  little  mistake  somewhere!"  For 
one  is  more  intelligent  than  seems  to  be  ap- 
parent. "What  is  your  landlady's  name?  I 

119 


Gutter-Babies 

wonder  if  you  remember  Mrs.  Kirby,  do 
you?" 

"I  don't  know  er  nime,  Miss,  I  ain't  bin 
there  long.  I  'aves  a  little  slip  room  at  the 
back,  and  I  just  goes  in  and  out,  and  takes 
no  notice  of  no  one,  Miss!" 

When  persuasions  and  suggestions  have  all 
failed,  it  is  necessary  to  resort  to  more  drastic 
treatment. 

"Now  look  here,  Mrs.  Kirby,  I  happen  to 
know  you  don't  live  at  number  25!" 

"I  knows  I  do!"  protests  Mrs.  Kirby,  and 
retires  swearing  at  my  promise  to  call  on  her 
at  home. 

After  office  hours  an  official  visit  is  paid  to 
number  25,  where  the  landlady  happens  to 
be  the  Twins'  mother. 

The  usual  topics  must  be  discussed  and  all 
the  minute  formulae  of  a  Gutter  call  observed 
faithfully.  The  weather  was  mild  for  the 
time  of  year,  the  laundry  season  was  start- 
ing. "Pore  Earn"  had  been  buried  nearly  a 
twelvemonth.  Blanchie  was  n't  doing  much, 
and  had  worn  out  another  pair  of  shoes  prac- 
tising her  skipping  on  the  "hashphalt,"  al- 

120 


The  Gutter  Philanthropy 

though  her  foster  father  had  thrashed  her  till 
he  could  n't  hold  up  his  arm  any  more.  Fin- 
ally, Mrs.  Kirby  did  not  live  there,  of  course, 
but  someone  had  called  and  asked  to  have  a 
"phropic  ticket"  sent  there  for  them.  That 
was  her,  no  doubt,  but  you  had  to  be  so  care- 
ful what  you  said  to  such  people,  because 
"they  give  you  a  dab  in  the  face  for  two 
pins!" 

After  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  when  Mrs. 
Kirby  is  eventually  discovered,  her  dis- 
pleasure and  contempt  are  violent! 

"S'pose  you  knew  I  don't  live  there  now? 
And  what  if  I  don't,  yer  hypocritin'  swine, 
nosin'  round  me!  If  yer  calls  that  Charity, 
keep  it,  then." 

Much  more  has  to  be  borne  with  seeming 
indifference,  and  presently  one  may  be  able 
to  get  in  a  word,  for  even  the  vocabulary  of 
Mrs.  Kirby  is  not  inexhaustible. 

"And  now  tell  me  why  you  wanted  me  to 
help  you!" 

There  is  a  sudden  paralysis  of  this  atmo- 
spheric storm,  as  if  some  electric  current  had 
been  unexpectedly  disconnected,  for  the  soul 

121 


Gutter-Babies 

of  Kirby  is  a  battle-scene  of  many  emotions. 
I  am  a  "nosey  intruder"  who  has  made  her 
out  a  liar,  but  underneath  this  great  wave  of 
resentment,  the  deep  of  one  human  sympathy 
is  calling  imperatively  to  another. 

The  thin  lines  of  Kirby's  mouth  have  col- 
lapsed forlornly,  and  the  world  of  Kirby  is 
wrapped  in  a  wet  blanket. 

"The  baby  was  a-cryin'  fer  bread!" 

Through  this  labyrinth  of  lies  and  profes- 
sional inquisition,  we  had  at  last  arrived  at 
the  fact,  which,  in  the  exquisite  pathos  of  its 
simplicity,  has  in  the  story  of  Man  forced 
the  granaries  of  Heaven,  claimed  the  sym- 
pathy of  Mary's  Son,  and  still  has  weight  to 
touch  the  heart  of  a  State. 

A  Gutter-baby  was  hungry! 

There  is  of  course  a  less  conspicuous  and 
far  more  genuine  system  of  philanthropy 
working  very  quietly  within  the  Gutter! 

At  the  top  of  number  25,  a  little  dress- 
maker's improver  is  dying  slowly  of  cancer, 
dying  as  she  has  lived  in  a  lonely  agonising 
struggle  against  a  pitiless  destiny.  But  the 
Twins'  mother  is  kind  in  her  attention,  and  is 

122 


The  Gutter  Philanthropy 

letting  the  rent  run  on  unnoticed,  and  there 
is  no  shameful  appeal  here  for  Charity.  Every 
pay-day  her  mates  drop  in  one  by  one  on 
their  way  from  the  work-room  and  leave  a 
shilling  behind  them.  Any  feeble  suggestion 
of  the  Infirmary  or  philanthropic  interference 
from  without  is  met  with  fierce  objections. 

"We've  kep'  yer  all  this  time,  'ave  n't  we? 
and  we'll  see  yer  don't  want  fer  nothink  till 
the  end;  don't  cher  fret,  Nell,  me  darlin'!" 

How  some  of  these  people  live  is  a  complete 
mystery  to  the  local  Committee,  and  they 
are  never  tired  of  making  long  speeches  about 
it  at  their  frequent  sessions;  then  the  Gutter 
Parson  lifts  an  intelligent  eyebrow  and  says 
that  he  wonders,  too ! 

Somewhere  or  other  below  the  muddle  and 
blunder,  there  trickles  a  thin,  clear  stream  of 
kindliness,  and  if  ever  the  person  on  the  plat- 
form has  enough  of  the  genius  of  human  cor- 
respondence to  sweat  barearmed  with  tired 
workers,  to  sit  at  meat  among  Our  Set,  and 
drop  a  penny  into  the  pocket  of  Special 
Johnny  without  being  laughed  at,  it  will  be 
Morning  in  the  Gutter! 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A  Silent  Sappho 

IT  was  born  one  spring  morning  quite  early, 
before  the  day  was  sure  that  it  was  to- 
day,— a  little  thing  and  perhaps  not  so 
very  wonderful,  but  to  her  who  brought  it 
forth  strangely  enchanting.  She  was  a  Poetess 
and  lived  in  a  tiny  dark  slip  room  in  a  narrow 
winding  slum.  She  never  burned  the  mid- 
night oil,  for  she  was  too  poor  to  waste  even 
a  tallow  candle.  But  sometimes  she  struck 
a  match  and  watched  the  little  black  head 
burst  into  a  sickly  flame  that  travelled  slowly 
down  the  stick,  until  it  scorched  her  poor  thin 
fingers.  She  did  not  live  quite  alone.  There 
was  a  melancholy  white  terrier  with  project- 
ing hips  and  moist  eyes,  who  hid  in  the  cup- 
board by  day  and  only  ventured  out  at  night 
like  the  great  overgrown  rats  which  filled 
him  with  fear.  For  the  Poetess  had  no 
licence.  She  called  him  Flossy,  a  playful 
name  that  was  never  meant  for  him ;  happily 

124 


A  Silent  Sappho 

he  had  no  sense  of  humour  and  answered  to  it 
with  one  spotted  ear  alert,  and  a  snivelling 
nose  against  her  cheek. 

And  he  would  sit  for  hours,  while  the 
Poetess  read  to  him  snatches  of  verse,  and 
his  stumpy  tail  thumped  approval  in  the  dust 
as  though  in  a  vain  effort  to  scan  the  quaint 
metre.  So  the  Poetess  and  the  dog  and  the 
Thing  lived  together  and  hardly  knew  them- 
selves for  happiness.  Every  morning  the 
Poetess  went  out  for  a  walk,  and  brought 
back  a  number  of  wire  coronets,  and  some 
soft  hairy  stuff  which  she  wound  round  them 
to  make  pads  for  fine  ladies  to  increase  the 
dimensions  of  their  heads.  And  so  the 
Poetess  was  dependent  on  the  caprice  of 
feminine  vanity  for  a  day's  work  and  bread 
enough  to  eat.  The  trade  had  been  unusually 
slack  of  late,  and  in  the  home  of  the  Poetess 
the  financial  situation  became  serious  as  the 
winter  months  dragged  wearily  on.  Day 
after  day,  the  Poetess  came  home  with  a 
dwindling  bundle,  half  a  stale  loaf,  and  a 
dark  piece  of  meat,  for  which  Flossy  fought 
bravely  with  the  rats.  The  dog  began  to  fret 

125 


Gutter-Babies 

and  pine,  whining  through  the  long  hours  of 
his  lonely  vigil  in  the  cupboard,  and  during 
his  brief  nightly  freedom  became  too  queru- 
lous to  appreciate  the  companionship  of  the 
Poetess.  But  the  Thing  grew  and  throve 
extraordinarily,  and  at  night  when  the  room 
was  dark  and  silent,  and  Flossy  lay  still  in 
the  shape  of  a  whiting  and  breathing  hard  at 
the  end  of  the  bed,  It  almost  seemed  to  be 
another  soul.  Sometimes  It  cried  like  a  child 
at  its  mother's  breast  and  wept  because  the 
Poetess  could  not  satisfy  It.  Sometimes  It 
seemed  to  be  a  great  bird  that  beat  its  wild 
wings  against  the  low  roof  and  tore  at  the 
rattling  window  pane  and  carried  her  up,  up, 
high  up  above  the  moon,  and  she  sighed  and 
asked  if  that  was  fame.  But  when  the  morn- 
ing came,  she  drew  It  back  like  a  schoolboy's 
kite,  nursing  It  away  in  her  bosom  again, 
and  went  out  for  the  walk  to  the  factory  that 
grew  longer  every  time,  with  the  Gutter- 
babies  yelling  after  her,  "Ragged  Molly! 
long-haired  Molly!"  For  Gutter-babies  can 
be  very  silly  sometimes.  They  did  not  recog- 
nise within  the  eyes  of  the  Poetess  the  glim- 

126 


A  Silent  Sappho 


mer  of  that  divine  enthusiasm  which  no  in- 
solence can  quench,  and  they  never  guessed 
that  under  the  rags,  warm  and  live  against 
her  breaking  heart,  slept  a  treasure  that  no 
thieving  hand  could  ever  find. 

But  Ragged  Molly  had  one  champion :  over 
the  darkened  intellect  and  perverse  mind  of 
my  Johnny  the  Poetess  and  her  eccentric 
establishment  exercised  a  marvellous  influ- 
ence. The  hours  when  he  ought  to  have  been 
occupied  profitably  in  the  Special  School 
were  spent  inside  Ragged  Molly's  cupboard 
where  the  two  odd  little  outcasts,  the  dog 
without  a  licence  and  the  human  boy  whom 
Society  had  labelled  "Special,'*  hid  together 
from  the  law  and  kept  each  other  warm.  Long 
after  he  ought  to  have  been  in  bed,  when 
his  mother  was  calling  "Johnny!  Johnny!" 
across  the  deserted  Rec,  the  Poetess  was 
teaching  him  long  stories  in  verse,  and  making 
him  say  them  to  her  again  as  he  sat  at  her 
feet,  a  tamed  and  gentle  little  Johnny,  fasci- 
nated by  her  pale  face  and  wildly  brilliant 
eyes.  They  were  able  sometimes  to  speak  of 
the  Thing,  and  they  did  not  know  that  this 

127- 


Gutter-Babies 

was  the  Gift  of  Tongues,  or  that  the  school  of 
the  Mystics  would  have  been  glad  to  claim 
them  as  their  own.  In  the  bitter  world  of 
Ragged  Molly,  the  wayward  fitful  sympathy 
of  my  Johnny  must  have  been  a  sweet  and 
cheerful  influence.  Yet  in  the  end  it  was 
Johnny  who  betrayed  her. 

The  Poetess  was  proud  of  her  poverty. 
"Great  Chatterton  starved,"  she  would  say, 
"and  so  must  we!" 

But  there  came  a  day  when  she  crawled 
back  wearily  with  empty  hands,  and  Flossy 's 
eager  expectant  greeting  ended  in  a  wail  of 
disappointment,  as  he  went  back  to  cover 
with  his  tail  between  his  legs. 

When  the  Visitor  called,  she  was  permitted 
for  the  first  time,  after  many  attempts,  to 
enter  the  home  of  the  Poetess.  She  was  a 
common  person;  by  that  I  mean,  as  I  dare 
say  you  know,  that  when  one  first  looked  at 
her  one  felt  quite  sure  that  one  had  seen  her 
somewhere  before,  and  when  one  looked  away 
one  forgot  what  she  was  like  altogether.  And 
she  always  said  the  obvious  thing  in  the  most 
obvious  way,  which  would  not  matter  at  all, 

128 


The  poetess  teaching  long  stories  in  verse 


A  Silent  Sappho 

only  it  is  so  seldom  the  excellent  thing  or  the 
acceptable  way.  Her  gloves  were  out  at  the 
fingers  from  poking  in  empty  pockets  for 
phantom  pennies,  and  she  had  as  many  names 
as  there  are  days  in  the  week,  and  was  re- 
ceived courteously  or  not,  accordingly.  On 
Mondays  nobody  was  very  keen  —  she  was 
the  Boot  Club.  Some  people  jerked  untidy 
heads^out  of  upper  windows  and  screamed, 
"No think  for  yer  ter-dy,  Miss!"  Others 
grumbled  because  the  wind  blew  in  their  faces 
when  they  opened  the  door.  Tuesday  she 
was  "Charity,"  and  everyone  had  to  remem- 
ber to  get  up  late,  and  sad-faced  Gutter- 
babies  learnt  off  by  heart  long  and  pitiful 
stories  to  recite  to  her,  and  woe,  indeed,  to 
any  improvident  little  rascal  who  had  failed 
in  courtesy  on  that  day.  Sometimes  she  was 
"  Blue  Ribbon,"  and  had  herself  to  remember 
to  look  the  other  way  when  the  ceaseless 
procession  of  thirsty  jugs  clinked  cheerfully 
past  her  in  the  dinner  hour.  Sometimes  she 
was  the  Church,  and  scattered  light  litera- 
ture about  whenever  she  got  inside  a  door, 
which  was  not  often,  and  everyone  said  they 

129 


Gutter-Babies 

would  certainly  come,  but  after  she  had  gone 
the  young  Gutter-babies  ate  up  the  tickets, 
and  in  the  evening  the  little  Visitor  peered 
anxiously  out  of  a  forlorn  Mission  Hall  into 
an  empty  street,  and  then  went  back  again 
to  arrange  the  chairs  differently.  Her  home 
was  set  in  a  great  building  like  a  rabbit 
warren  with  long  stone  passages  and  innum- 
erable other  little  homes  inside  it  full  of 
Gutter-babies,  full  of  human  life  and  human 
wrongs. 

Once  in  the  window  which  held  the  longest 
sunbeam,  a  gilded  cage  had  swung  a  speckled- 
breasted  thrush  above  the  winter  snows. 
But  as  the  mornings  grew  brighter,  the  poor 
prisoner  sang  love-songs  to  a  geranium  pot  in 
the  next-door  flat,  and  died  broken-hearted 
in  the  spring. 

And  once  the  little  Visitor  had  caught  a 
real  live  Gutter-baby  of  her  own  and  tamed 
it.  There  had  been  a  wonderful  reign  of  love 
then  in  the  lonely  home,  but  quite  suddenly 
one  day  the  Gutter-baby  grew  up  and  ran 
away. 

Even  the  Poetess,  starving  slowly  to  death 
130 


A  Silent  Sappho 

in  her  garret,  was  better  off.  For  she  had 
something  to  nurse  and  cuddle  and  hide, 
which  is  all  a  woman  wants  to  make  her 
happy. 

Now  when  these  two,  the  Visitor  and  the 
Poetess,  met,  a  curious  thing  happened;  the 
Visitor  quite  forgot  why  she  had  come,  for- 
got to  ask  impertinent  questions  or  to  de- 
mand the  rent-book  or  to  peer  into  unlikely 
places  for  pawn-tickets,  and  the  Poetess  felt 
like  some  little  bird  sitting  on  a  nest  that 
has  been  discovered,  for  she  knew  that  this 
common  shabby  person  had  scented  the 
glorious  existence  of  the  Thing. 

The  Visitor  looked  round  the  comfortless, 
pitiful  little  home  with  its  dreadful  secret  of 
a  heart's  struggle  and  despair,  and  even  the 
poor  necessities  of  bare  existence  seemed  to 
wear  the  semblance  of  wealth  and  luxury 
there.  She  promised  everything  she  had  to 
the  Poetess  in  exchange  for  the  Thing. 

"Give  it  to  me!"  she  said,  "just  to  mind 
and  nurse  and  educate  for  you,  and  by  and 
by  it  will  bring  us  money  and  fame." 

But  no  desire  of  earth   could   touch   the 


Gutter-Babies 

heart  of  Ragged  Molly  where  it  lay  twisted 
in  the  warm  embrace,  which  with  cooing  and 
soft  laughter  and  song  was  already  lifting 
her  into  a  perfect  heaven  of  love  and  delight. 
Not  for  anything  that  worlds  might  give 
must  this  strange  and  heavenly  companion 
be  sold  to  the  children  of  men.  And  soon  the 
little  Visitor  found  herself  in  the  cold  wind- 
swept street,  feeling  like  Hannah  when  she 
stood  with  her  enemies  in  the  gate,  and  in  her 
ears  rang  the  voice  of  Ragged  Molly,  —  "  You 
will  go  and  tell  your  world  of  the  poor  Poetess, 
but  you  will  never  be  able  to  tell  of  what  you 
have  seen  to-day!" 

Some  day  there  will  be  a  long  silence  in  the 
little  chamber,  and  presently  a  curious  neigh- 
bour will  force  open  the  door  to  stare  at  the 
Poetess  lying  very  quietly,  with  her  head 
pillowed  in  rags  on  the  floor,  and  watched  by 
a  sad-eyed  terrier  with  a  weak  hysterical 
bark.  Then  someone  will  remember  that 
great  Chatterton  starved,  but  nobody  will  be 
able  to  find  the  Thing. 


CHAPTER  XV 

The  Gutter-Baby  Mystic 

NO  one  has  very  seriously  persuaded 
the  obstinate  Paganism  of  the  Gut- 
ter Mind. 

Often  in  the  story  of  Guttergarten  some 
remarkable  person  has  given  us  his  life  and 
the  Gutter  has  been  irresistibly  drawn  into 
the  magnetic  atmosphere  of  a  great  human 
influence. 

We  might,  indeed,  easily  find  here  enough 
copy  to  write  in  heavy  volumes  our  own  Acta 
Sanctorum  within  the  White  Circle  of  kindly 
sympathy  and  creative  holiness  which  they 
have  cast  down  in  the  swinish  heart  of  Gut- 
tergarten. 

In  the  breath  of  our  gibes  and  stinging 
sneers,  spattered  with  the  Gutter-babies' 
muddy  insults,  with  their  vitality  and  enthu- 
siasm daily  spent  and  sucked  away  by  the 
exacting  devotion  and  vampire  greed  which 
has  at  last  slain  them  in  our  service,  the 

133 


Gutter-Babies 

Gutter  Saints  have  lived  among  us  and  been 
entertained.  And  we  have  seen  their  pass- 
ing with  a  shocked  reverence  and  the  dumb 
sense  of  a  deep  personal  loss. 

And  still  Guttergarten  is  unconverted,  and 
still  day  after  day  the  Gutter  Parson  tramps 
a  hostile,  devil-haunted  district,  and  travels 
patiently  backwards  and  forwards  from  the 
little  grim  Mission  Chapel,  where  the  noisy 
bell  summons  him  so  frequently  and  so  im- 
periously with  its  persistent  and  unmusical 
clamouring.  And  day  after  day  he  comes 
back,  as  the  shadows  are  gathering  in  the 
silence  of  his  lonely  den,  to  kick  off  his  dusty 
boots  with  the  same  tired  sigh,  and  the  same 
unchanging  conclusion,  —  "Well,  there's  no 
religion  in  them!" 

When  the  Stranger  and  the  Enemy  come 
to  talk  with  the  Gutter  Parson  upon  the  very 
scene  of  his  herculean  labours,  he  has  no 
imposing  red-brick  building  to  mark  the  line 
of  progress  on  the  dingy  map  of  his  energies, 
no  overpopulous  night-clubs,  covering  them- 
selves with  glory  on  field  and  river,  and 
scarcely  a  handful  of  the  faithful  in  the  dim 

134 


The  Gutter-Baby  Mystic 

chapel,  gathered  under  the  red  lamp,  —  only 
that  homely,  sordid,  slowly-sinking  life  of  his, 
so  soon  to  startle  us  with  the  divine  enthusi- 
asm of  the  last  flicker. 

The  Gutter  Parson's  task  is  but  a  little 
less  complicated  than  that  offered  to  .the 
Catholic  Church  by  the  heathen  empire  in 
the  day  of  many  gods  and  many  creeds. 

For  deep  below  the  superficial  indifference 
of  Guttergarten  slumbers  the  mighty  giant 
of  Primitive  Religion,  and  his  waking  move- 
ments, as  he  gropes  towards  the  Light,  are 
varied  in  expression. 

Among  the  little  wild  people  themselves 
the  favourite  and  most  precious  symbols  of 
the  Eternal  Mysticism  are,  I  think,  quite 
indisputably  the  Bonfire,  the  Garden,  and 
the  Grotto. 

From  the  earliest  days  of  crawling  in- 
fancy, when  the  great  facts  of  existence  first 
began  to  find  a  nucleus  of  interest  in  the 
Special  mind  of  Johnny,  the  mysterious  in- 
spiring cry  of  "Fire"  had  been  the  most 
splendid  invitation  that  his  Gutter-world 
offered  to  him.  In  the  chill  dim  hours  of  the 

135 


Gutter-Babies 

lonely  winter  morning,  as  one  by  one  the 
warm  bodies  of  his  earthly  friends  left  the 
family  bed  to  scatter  reluctantly  about  their 
several  vocations,  the  Gutter-baby,  shiver- 
ing in  the  nakedness  of  his  material  rags, 
watched  the  solemn  birthday  of  the  fire,  and 
learned  to  look  forward  eagerly  to  the  il- 
luminated moment  when  he  might  be  old 
enough  to  be  trusted  to  assist  at  that  tremen- 
dous function  and  find  out  for  himself  the 
puzzling  secret  locked  away  in  the  common 
things  of  coal  and  wood.  As  his  mother  fed 
the  infant  flames  and  nursed  them  tenderly 
into  a  ferocious  energy,  it  was  with  other 
eyes  than  hers  that  the  Gutter-baby  beheld 
that  growing  living  Thing,  writhing  and 
dilating  in  the  shrine  of  the  sooty  grate.  He 
marked  each  leaping  motion  of  this  strange 
phenomenon  and  in  the  glow  of  its  radiating 
atmosphere  he  nestled,  curiously  charmed 
and  thrilled.  The  tiny  cold  blue  hands  are 
lifted  up  to  the  kindly  blaze,  and  closer 
creeps  the  little  body  until  Special  Johnny  is 
looking  into  the  heart  of  the  Fire  King,  as  it 
slowly  unfolds  to  him  its  story. 

136 


The  Gutter-Baby  Mystic 

Through  the  high  grill  of  the  "Regulation 
Guard,"  countless  fiery  serpent  tongues  hiss 
their  utterance  to  the  eternal  mysteries. 
There  the  twisting  fire-faces  smile  and  beckon 
to  him,  yawning  caverns  open  in  the  redden- 
ing coal,  and  among  the  bright  colours  of  the 
rising  flames  spring  fairy  obelisks  and  dream 
palaces.  In  the  long  hours  of  silent  com- 
munion, cheering  the  bitter  and  incomparable 
loneliness  of  a  human  babyhood,  Special 
Johnny  cements  his  Fire  friendship. 

But  the  growing  and  materializing  process 
of  the  Gutter-baby  soon  excommunicates 
him  from  the  Sacred  Shrine.  In  a  little  while 
his  lengthening  limbs  seem  to  be  in  every- 
one's way,  the  Regulation  Guard  is  required 
for  drying  the  new  baby's  little  garments, 
and  the  big  chair  by  the  fire  belongs  to  Daddy 
and  must  not  be  crawled  upon  by  little  boys. 
And  so  the  Gutter-baby,  with  the  Flame 
Secret  buried  in  the  fast  prison  of  his  young 
heart,  goes  out  into  the  cold  world.  And 
there  he  learns  the  mighty  force  and  volume 
of  his  friend  when  he  has  escaped  from  the 
control  of  the  Regulation  Guard.  Following 
137 


Gutter-Babies 

the  challenge  of  the  fire  cry  and  the  signal 
wreaths  of  blue  smoke  against  the  flame-lit 
sky,  he  scrambles  and  struggles  among  the 
crowd  which  has  collected  at  the  summons 
of  the  magic  word.  The  long  columns  of  the 
red  enemy  shoot  up  the  condemned  building, 
the  white  faces  of  threatened  victims  stare 
out  at  him  with  torture-stricken  eyes.  He 
hears  the  thundering  roll  of  wheels  upon  the 
hard  road,  there  is  fire  dancing  below  the 
swinging  body  of  the  Flame  Chariot.  It  darts 
in  glancing  rays  from  the  helmets  of  those 
closely  clinging  riders,  it  scatters  in  brilliant 
fireworks  under  the  stinging  beat  of  galloping 
hoofs. 

For  the  third  time  in  the  experience  of 
Special  Johnny,  the  Lawses'  little  oil-shop 
was  burning  fiercely. 

The  Lawses  themselves  had  put  their  fam- 
ily to  bed  and  were  out  on  a  shopping  expedi- 
tion. So  there  were  children  in  there,  Gutter- 
babies  like  himself  who  had  loved  the  Fire! 
t  Gutter-babies,  perhaps,  who  had  searched 
the  Gutter  for  fragments  of  real  coal,  and 
gathered  the  forbidden  twigs  in  the  parks 

138 


The  Gutter-Baby  Mystic 

and  front  gardens  of  the  West,  who  had 
saved  their  pennies  to  buy  the  precious  black 
knobs  to  drop  into  the  greedy  devouring  red 
mouth,  and  risked  their  little  bodies  in  steal- 
ing from  the  wood-yard.  Gutter-babies  who 
had  wept  in  the  hard  times  for  the  Fire  that 
died  of  starvation. 

And  now  they  were  suffocating  in  the  cruel 
remorseless  grip  of  the  Fire  Fiend's  wrath. 

For  many  days  after,  the  charred  ruin  of 
the  Lawses*  devastated  home,  and  the  shrink- 
ing fear  of  those  three  little  stiffening  bodies 
paralysed  the  mind  of  Special  Johnny. 

But  there  were  other  moods  in  which  he 
might  still  seek  safely  the  society  of  his  old 
friends.  On  his  reluctant  way  to  the  Special 
School  every  morning,  the  blacksmith's  forge 
never  failed  to  arrest  his  speculative  atten- 
tion. Here  the  merry  army  of  glowing  sparks 
springing  from  the  anvil  filled  the  world 
with  a  shower  of  golden  insect  life  and  tickled 
his  childish  fancy  into  dreamland  again. 

Once  more  the  old  irresistible  fascination  of 
the  Fire  King  was  upon  him,  and  so  it  hap- 
pens that  in  every  sheltered  nook  and  cranny 

139 


Gutter-Babies 

of  the  windswept  Gutter  streets  we  find  recent 
traces  of  the  Gutter-baby's  Fire-worship. 
Here,  where  the  ashes  are  scarcely  scattered 
and  the  ground  is  blackened  and  strewn  with 
the  debris  of  charred  sticks  and  dead  matches, 
has  squatted  sometime  the  figure  of  a  tiny 
Gutter-baby  philosopher,  and  with  infinite 
tenderness  has  nursed  his  little  god. 

How  much  all  this  has  to  do  with  the  gro- 
tesque miniature  architecture  so  skilfully 
and  delicately  erected,  in  the  eagerly  appro- 
priated sites  of  Guttergarten,  I  suppose  even 
the  Gutter-baby  himself  will  never  be  able  to 
tell  us. 

"Please  'member  the  Grotto!" 

An  evil-smelling  oyster  shell  in  a  grubby 
and  persistent  little  hand,  and  a  pleading 
cockney  voice  is  at  our  elbow.  And  lo!  we 
are  standing  unsuspectingly  on  the  very 
threshold  of  a  Lilliputian  cave  of  Mysteries. 
Into  what  stupendous  psychic  adventure  have 
we  now  stumbled?  Is  this  the  sanctuary  of 
a  miniature  Corycian  Cavern  wherein,  per- 
haps in  the  rent  chasm  of  a  winkle-shell,  the 
dread  Typhon  yet  nurses  his  wrath?  Perhaps 

140 


Please  'member  the  Grotto  1 


The  Gutter-Baby  Mystic 

we  have  never  before  quite  realised  the  im- 
mense fact  of  the  Grotto  in  the  development 
of  human  experience. 

It  may  be  the  lament  of  Adonis,  or  an  echo 
from  the  Crib,  that  we  shall  hear  in  this  little 
Bethlehem  of  Guttergarten. 

But  we  must  not  forget  to  look  for  the 
Gutter-baby  Gardener.  Very  much  is  being 
done  just  now  to  encourage  him  by  the  local 
authorities. 

In  the  arid  desert  of  the  asphalt  "Rec" 
one  spot,  apparently  quite  deliberately  set 
apart  for  the  purpose  of  Tree-worship,  is 
fenced  off  with  barbed  wire  and  high  yew 
hedges  from  the  devastating  explorations  of 
Gutter-baby  adventurers.  Here,  with  round 
and  envious  eyes,  and  impotently  greedy 
fingers,  Special  Johnny  may  cultivate  an 
appreciation  for  the  stunted  newly  planted 
shrubs  and  sooty  beds  of  geraniums,  far 
removed  from  the  reach  of  his  plundering 
capacity.  Serious,  indeed,  would  be  the  case 
of  any  presumptuous  Gutter-baby  who  might 
trespass  on  those  hallowed  precincts,  or, 
squirming  his  small  body  between  the  forti- 

141 


Gutter-Babies 

fications,  dare  to  carry  off  in  a  hot  little  hand 
one  fading  bloom. 

And  yet,  unwatched  and  unguarded  in 
another  part  of  the  open  "Rec,"  the  same 
Gutter-baby,  unchecked  by  any  official  re- 
straint, learns  the  vicious  secrets  of  brutal 
men  and  evil-mouthed  women. 

But  soon  in  the  Special  mind  of  Johnny  the 
old  Adam  wakes  from  slumber. 

"Back  to  the  land." 

And  long  before  the  Feast  of  the  Midsum- 
mer Saint  the  bare  wall  of  the  Gutter  cot- 
tages are  hung  with  bright-coloured  little 
pot-gardens,  charging  the  thick  atmosphere 
of  Guttergarten  with  the  heavy  scent  of  their 
ephemeral  sweetness,  varied  at  intervals  by 
the  narrow  prisons  of  caged  songbirds. 

Were  the  Gutter  Parson  to  be  passing  just 
now  and  were  he  to  stop  to  reconsider  his 
condemnation  of  the  Soul  of  Guttergarten,  he 
might  perhaps  be  tempted  to  plant  a  little  seed 
in  the  rich  soil  of  pagan  imagination  and  sit 
down  beside  the  Bonfire  and  the  Grotto  under 
the  little  swinging  pot-gardensof  Adonis,  to  tell 
the  eternal  tragedy  of  the  Sun-god,  who,  while 

142 


The  Gutter-Baby  Mystic 

the  Gutter-babies  are  gently  dreaming,  sets 
out  every  night  on  his  little  boat  on  that 
perilous  voyage  through  the  Moon's  white 
heart  into  the  fields  of  the  Morning  Rose. 
A  little  audience  would  gradually  gather 
about  him,  open-mouthed  and  semi-articulate, 
with  eager  questions,  and  perhaps  even  a 
loutish  overgrown  Gutter-baby,  on  his  way 
back  from  the  day's  work,  would  be  gladly 
welcomed  in  their  midst. 

"Daddy,  come  and  listen  to  our  fairy 
tale!" 

But  the  big  Gutter-baby  stops  only  a 
moment  with  his  foolish  vacant  stare,  and  as 
he  turns  away  to  his  own  little  temple  of 
Dionysus,  his  beer-muddled,  unreceptive 
brain  forms  its  brief  conclusion,  — 

"Damned  rot!" 

Perhaps  after  all  the  Gutter  Parson  did  not 
make  any  mistake! 


CHAPTER  XVI 

The  Crown  of  Thorns 

THERE  is  a  certain  kind  of  super- 
special    Gutter-baby   who   has   no 
place  even  in  the  diversified  scheme 
of  Guttergarten. 

The  deaf  Gutter-babies  and  the  blind 
Gutter-babies,  the  Gutter-babies  who  have 
fits,  even  those  who  are  distinguished  by 
peculiar  tendencies  towards  certain  moral 
accomplishments,  and  the  poor  little  Gutter- 
babies  who  have  dead  mothers  and  fathers, 
are  all  eagerly  appropriated  by  various  asy- 
lums almost  as  soon  as  their  different  eccen- 
tricities have  declared  themselves. 

But  it  is  not  so  with  this  Gutter-baby. 

And  day  by  day,  as  the  enormous  numbers 
of  the  maimed  and  crippled  little  people  are 
sorted  out,  and  tenderly  gathered  up  by  good 
Samaritan  omnibuses,  to  be  deposited  in  their 
own  particular  pigeon-holes  for  education, 
there  is  one  Gutter-baby  who  always  stretches 

144 


The  Crown  of  Thorns 

out  appealing  little  hands  in  vain.  For  no- 
body wants  this  super-special  Gutter-baby. 

To  the  round  bright  eyes  of  this  Gutter- 
baby  the  gladness  of  earth's  springtime  means 
nothing  at  all,  and  it  does  not  know  whether 
the  new  garment  that  gives  such  supreme 
pleasure  to  this  little  egoist  is  red  or  green. 
The  sound  of  the  great  World-voice  reaches 
those  little  grimy,  self-assertively  projecting 
ears  through  a  blanket  soaked  with  dulled 
intelligence.  This  Gutter-baby  speaks  with 
a  thickened  stubborn  tongue  its  own  lan- 
guage of  confused  gibberish  which  conveys 
little  or  no  meaning  to  anyone.  And  often 
it  rolls  purposelessly  upon  the  floor,  and  beats 
its  curly  tangled  head  against  the  wall  with 
the  pain  of  a  life  which  cannot  be  interpreted. 

And  yet  this  Gutter-baby  is  not  really  deaf, 
nor  can  it  be  medically  certified  as  blind  or 
insane.  It  is  just  a  super-special  Gutter- 
baby.  It  must  not  disturb  even  the  gentle 
discipline  of  the  Special  school-room,  and  it 
must  not  ride  away  in  the  omnibus  with  the 
little  maimed  people.  This  Gutter-baby  has 
got  to  learn  to  manage  its  own  little  crippled 

145 


Gutter-Babies 

life  for  itself,  because  it  has  been  declared 
perfectly  ineducable.  And  so  it  will  run  wild 
all  over  Guttergarten,  becoming  always  more 
and  more  a  derelict  of  Gutter-baby  society, 
and  always  less  easily  influenced  by  the  world 
of  sense,  until  at  last  some  of  those  little 
devils  who  are  so  lively  in  Guttergarten  catch 
the  little  body  for  themselves.  And  they  do 
not  often  leave  it  until  they  have  brought  it 
to  the  prison  or  the  madhouse. 

A  Gutter-baby  after  this  type  was  our  Bess. 

A  "fair  picture!"  her  father  said  she  was, 
and  worshipped  her.  And  certainly  she  pos- 
sessed that  comparatively  rare  and  attract- 
ive gift  of  Gutter  beauty.  Her  round  bright 
eyes  were  marvellous,  notwithstanding  the 
fact  that  they  were  of  so  little  use  to  her,  and 
the  heavy  curls  about  her  suffering  little 
head  were  amber-rich.  Every  limb  was  sound 
and  straight,  and  her  small  delicately  mod- 
elled features  gave  no  freakish  suggestions. 
Her  firm  chin  was  set  as  boldly  as  any  self- 
reliant  little  spirit  could  have  moulded  it,  and 
yet  she  had  no  means  whatever  of  commun- 
ication with  us,  and  seemed  to  live  in  a  little 

146 


world  of  her  own  fixed  far  away  from  ours. 
For  a  long  time  she  used  to  sit  on  the  seat 
beside  Johnny  on  his  rare  visits  to  the  Special 
School  and  it  was  during  this  period,  I  sup- 
pose, that  the  great  friendship  ripened  which 
was  destined  to  play  so  large  a  part  in  the 
psychic  museum  of  Guttergarten. 

It  was  an  idle  morning  in  March,  with  the 
smell  of  spring  in  the  air,  and  a  certain  sharp- 
ness rushing  in  through  the  open  window. 
Blanchie  had  just  cleared  a  little  corner  in 
the  muddle  of  occupations  which  had  failed 
to  absorb  my  attention,  and  had  disappeared 
up  the  street  on  the  urgent  quest  of  dinners. 
Meanwhile  I  hung  myself  out  of  the  window 
and  watched  the  busy  traffic  of  the  Gutter- 
world. 

Opposite  me,  like  a  great  hive,  was  a  three- 
storeyed  building  secreting  in  its  self-contained 
capacity  six  little  overpopulated  two-roomed 
homes. 

A  dull,  prosaic  Gutter  Castle  it  appeared, 
high  and  straight,  with  two  windows  and  a 
little  one  on  each  storey,  varied  on  the 
ground  floor  by  a  heavy  door  flung  wide  with 

147 


Gutter-Babies 

invitation,  disclosing  a  splash  of  red  tiles 
and  an  oak  staircase  within.  In  its  crude 
innocence  of  romance  and  suggestion  it  was 
loyally  typical  of  the  superficial  semblance 
of  commonplace  monotony  which  shelters 
from  publicity  the  tragic  heart  of  Gutter- 
garten.  And  yet  that  Gutter  Castle  door,  as 
it  swings  backwards  and  forwards  in  the  sun- 
shine, is  scratched  all  over  with  many  of  the 
great  names  of  Guttergarten,  and  up  and 
down  those  steep  and  narrow  stairs  the  Gut- 
ter Parson  has  hunted  many  priceless  souls. 
There  sometime  the  famous  Twins  had  ar- 
rived, in  the  days  before  Prosperity  had  driven 
the  family  into  another  atmosphere.  There, 
too,  behind  the  top  window  left,  the  death- 
less tragedy  of  the  two  Lizzies  was  being 
dragged  out.  And  there  in  the  son-in-law's 
home  the  Ghastly  Playmate  had  celebrated 
his  mysteries  and  the  Grandmother  had  been 
carried  out. 

Within  that  grim  Gutter  Castle  even  now 
women  hugged  dreadful  secrets,  and  from  it 
men  went  out  into  the  night  for  strange 
crimes.  There  had  wandered,  prying,  many 

148 


The  Crown  of  Thorns 

an  inquisitive  little  soul  to  be  hurried  into  the 
pain  and  punishment,  the  uttermost  woe  of 
Gutter  Birth. 

;  All  round  about  within  its  shadow  small 
shops  have  been  ruined  and  hastily  vacated 
and  picturesque  hovels  picked  to  pieces, 
giving  up  their  dry  bones  and  leaving  Gutter- 
babies  and  rats  homeless. 

But  the  Gutter  Castle  remains,  stern 
against  the  caprice  of  progress  and  decay, 
and  guards  in  secret  its  tender  memories  of 
human  tears  and  wreckage. 

Presently  the  elder  Lizzie  threw  up  her 
window  and  hung  three  parts  of  her  anatomy 
outside  it.  It  was  between  school-hours,  and 
the  children  of  all  the  homes  in  the  street 
seemed  to  be  tossing  buttons  and  quarrelling 
with  each  other  below. 

"Bring  yerself  in  before  I  kills  yer!"  she 
called  to  the  bootless  Teddy,  who  was  occupied 
in  playing  prisoners,  and  was  at  that  moment 
in  the  act  of  being  strapped  down,  and  hoisted 
insecurely  upon  a  miniature  ambulance. 

Suddenly,  catching  my  wandering  eye,  she 
sustained  an  obvious  shock. 

149 


Gutter-Babies 

"My!  Miss,  yer  fair  frit  me!"  she  observed. 
"But  they  may  as  well  'ave  a  dinner  whiles 
they  can  get  it,  there  won't  be  any  for  none 
of  us  next  week!" 

In  the  road  between  us  a  woman  stopped, 
open-mouthed  and  greedily  intelligent. 

"Ain't  yer  man  finishin'  up  on  Saturday, 
Mrs.  Sly?"  she  shouted  up  at  us.  But  only 
the  silence  of  Lizzie's  sarcasm  floated  down 
to  her  from  the  upper  world. 

It  was  Mrs.  Kirby,  with  a  dull  afternoon 
before  her  at  the  laundry:  it  would  have  been 
greatly  cheered  by  that  little  gleaning  of 
gossip  about  the  elder  Lizzie,  and  the  prospect 
of  passing  it  on  to  her  mates,  but  she  went 
away  disappointed. 

"  Nosey  old  Parker,  ain't  'er  now?  "  shouted 
Lizzie  to  her  retreating  back;  "I  guess  my 
children  '11  'ave  new  clothes,  boots,  and  all 
afore  yours  then,  you  cat!  Calls  'erself  a 
woman!" 

Below,  Teddy  had  taken  up  the  defence  of 
the  family  honour,  and  was  viciously  tor- 
menting the  confused  Kirby. 

"Old  Sally  Witch,  Old  Sally  Witch!"  he 
150 


The  Crown  of  Thorns 

shrieked  after  her,  in  tones  of  meaningless 
and  piercing  monotony. 

On  the  ground  floor,  Mrs.  Jones,  with  her 
nerves  harassed  and  unstrung  in  the  supreme 
effort  of  feeding  her  numerous  consumptive 
family,  who  were  even  more  "finnicky"  and 
"nice"  over  their  scanty  fare  than  usual, 
became  suddenly  exasperated. 

With  heated  countenance  and  bare  red 
arms,  she  rushed  out  upon  the  surprised 
Teddy  in  his  valiant  enterprise,  and  smacked 
his  face  for  him.  "Yer  owdacious  little 
'ound,"  she  cried  between  her  blows;  "stop 
yer  mouth  with  one  of  them!" 

But  Teddy's  disfigured  mouth  was  not  to 
be  permanently  so  subdued;  squeals  of  pain 
and  indignation  soon  drew  forth  the  elder 
Lizzie's  energetic  head  again  upon  the  scene, 
and  huge  consternation  seized  us  all.  For  the 
utterly  Unforgivable,  the  Gutter  Impossi- 
ble had  happened,  and  we  were  petrified. 
Mrs.  Jones  had  "paid"  another  woman's 
Gutter-baby.  Within  the  withered  bosom  of 
the  elder  Lizzie,  which  had  never  at  any  time 
been  able  substantially  to  satisfy  one  of  her 


Gutter-Babies 

wailing  babies,  Primitive  Idea  was  struggling 
but  feebly.  Lizzie's  Man  was  at  home  swear- 
ing, the  soup  began  to  smell  burnt,  and  the 
younger  Lizzie  had  not  yet  come  in.  But 
Gutter  Maternity  had  been  outraged,  the 
situation  screamed  for  the  fury  of  righteous 
violence,  and  the  elder  Lizzie  bravely  rose  for 
the  cause,  and  worked  up  her  feeble  constitu- 
tion to  meet  the  demand. 

From  that  upper  window  she  gave  us  an 
adequately  disgusting  exhibition  of  feminine 
ferocity.  She  spat  and  swore  and  stormed 
herself  into  exhaustion.  "Not  that  'e  don't 
deserve  it,"  she  finished,  "that  I  won't  deny, 
but  'oo  touches  any  child  of  mine  does  it  over 
my  dead  body!" 

Teddy  had  begun  to  see  humour  in  his 
mother's  eloquence. 

"Votes  for  women!"  he  said,  winking  dis- 
loyally in  my  direction. 

For  Mrs.  Jones  there  was  no  way  out  ex- 
cept by  denial. 

"Yer  lyin'  devil,  ooer!  yer  miserable  little 
'ound!  yer  wicked  cat,  yer,  sayin*  as  'ow  I 
touched  yer  dirty  face!  I  would  n't  soil  one 

152 


The  Crown  of  Thorns 

of  me  fingers  with  'im,  Mrs.  Sly!  Of  course, 
if  yer  goin'  ter  listen  ter  wot  'e  ses,  I  may  as 
well  as  go  hin-side!  The  lyin'  brat.  Only 
fancy!  sayin'  as  'ow  I  soiled  me  finger  on  'im, 
the  wicked  cat!" 

"Oh,  well,  Mrs.  Jones,"  said  the  elder 
Lizzie,  who  had  accomplished  her  duty,  and 
was  over- weary  already  of  the  argument,  and 
anxious  to  be  pacified,  "if  yer  did  n't  'it  'im, 
there's  no  more  ter  be  said,  but  next  time  'e 
don't  b'ave  isself,  me  and  'is  dadda  prefers 
ter  'it  'im  ourselves,  Mrs.  Jones!" 

The  tremendous  episode  was  closed,  but 
as  Mrs.  Jones  swept  past  Teddy  into  retire- 
ment, she  waved  a  threatening  fist  in  his 
face. 

"I'll  knock  the  bloomin'  'ead  off  of  you!" 
she  promised  him. 

The  screams  of  Teddy,  after  he  had  arrived 
at  the  top  floor,  told  us  that  he  was  already 
being  "lawfully  paid"  for  making  a  disturb- 
ance. By  this  time  Blanchie's  eager  legs  were 
bearing  the  dinners  round  the  corner. 

"Pork,  Miss.  'As  there  been  a  row?"  she 
asked,  as  she  dished  up.  We  began  to  eat. 
153 


Gutter-Babies 

"Sad  news  I  'card,  Miss;  Johnny's  comin'  in 
presently  ter  tell  you  all  about  it  like,  so  don't 
be  knowing;  I  said  as  'ow  I  would  n't  tell  yer; 
but  Bess  she's  been  told  not  ter  come  to 
school,  and  she's  no  mother,  and  'er  daft  and 
all,  —  shame  I  calls  it,  don't  you,  Miss? 
Ain't  this  pork  er  treat?" 

Johnny  came  in  a  little  later  with  his  dread- 
ful news.  There  was  no  doubt  about  it.  Our 
Bess  had  been  condemned.  "Governess" 
wept,  and  Johnny  and  Company  were  rude 
about  it,  and  the  rest  of  us  fussed  and  ap- 
pealed to  authorities  and  aggravated  speeches 
and  Committee  meetings.  But  it  was  no  use 
at  all.  London  had  spoken,  our  Bess  was 
ineducable,  —  she  was  not  anybody's  affair. 
There  was  a  lethal  chamber  for  little  impos- 
sible dogs ;  perhaps  some  day  .  .  .  ?  But  (of 
course  it  was  a  pity)  no  place  could  be  found 
in  the  whole  scheme  of  Guttergarten  for  the 
super-special  Gutter-baby. 

We  made  such  a  fuss  that  at  last  we  roused 
the  Gutter  Parson,  who  did  not  generally 
distinguish  much  between  common  Gutter- 
garten babies  and  Specials. 
154 


The  Crown  of  Thorns 

"You  see  they  all  have  souls,  have  n't  they, 
dear?" 

He  came  to  see  the  super-special  Gutter- 
baby  with  a  handful  of  sticky  sweets  and  a 
queer  little  fur  animal,  which  he  called  a 
"Billy  Possum,"  sticking  out  of  his  pocket. 
Bess  understood  his  attentions  perfectly  well. 
Here  at  last  was  a  human  being  who  talked 
her  language.  She  sucked  the  sweets  and 
rolled  on  the  floor  with  the  "Billy  Possum" 
and  chattered  inarticulately  to  the  Guest. 
Afterwards  we  all  wanted  to  know  the  Gutter 
Parson's  opinion  of  the  case  of  the  super- 
special  Gutter-baby. 

"Well,  dear,"  he  began,  smoothing  out  his 
cassock,  and  lighting  his  pipe  for  a  chat,  "  the 
visit,  I  think,  was  a  great  success,  on  the 
whole!" 

But  had  he  nothing  to  contribute  to  the 
enormous  variety  of  opinion  and  suggestion 
that  had  gathered  round  the  complex  prob- 
lem of  our  Bess? 

Surely  he  had  some  hint  of  an  idea  to  give 
us  in  this  complicated  crisis? 

"Well,  dear,"  he  ventured  at  last,  after 
155 


Gutter-Babies 

much  persuasion,  "  I  certainly  think  it  is  very 
awkward  that  the  little  one  has  no  mother." 

It  seemed  an  obvious  conclusion  to  have 
arrived  at  after  all  our  fuss  and  energy,  and 
he  himself  seemed  innocently  pleased  with 
it.  It  is  little  to  be  wondered  at  that,  just 
then,  we  were  really  disappointed  in  our  Gut- 
ter Parson. 

But  he  was  always  so  immensely  practical 
in  his  conclusions.  He  went  on  just  telling  us 
all  what  a  pity  it  was  that  our  Bess  had  no 
mother,  until  at  last  he  found  someone  with  a 
little  money  who  agreed  with  him.  I  do  not 
suppose  that  the  Gutter  Parson  has  solved 
the  riddle  of  the  super-special  Gutter-babies, 
but  there  is  at  least  one  little  home  now  in 
Guttergarten  where  they  can  find  a  nursery 
for  their  temporary  needs,  until  their  glorious 
destiny  unfolds  itself  to  them.  For,  as  the 
Gutter  Parson  says,  "We  may  hope  great 
things  for  them  in  the  Future,  since  we  are 
not  all  privileged  to  wear  the  Thorns  here!" 


CHAPTER  XVII 

A 
"  At  Home  "  in  Gutter  gar  ten 

PLEASE,  Miss,  would  it  suit  yer  fer 
me  ter  come  up  just  now?" 
It  was  the  voice  of  the  Twins'  Mo- 
ther, who  stood   in  the  sunshine  under  my 
window  and  sought  admittance. 

I  pushed  a  friendly  head  out  over  the  win- 
dow ledge,  and  shouted  down  an  invitation. 
But  my  visitor  had  already  been  engaged  in 
conversation  by  the  Strange  Person  next 
door,  and  so,  having  a  few  minutes  at  least 
to  wait,  I  turned  my  attention  upon  the  Gut- 
ter Castle  opposite.  There  in  the  top  storey 
I  noticed  the  enquiring  nose  of  the  elder 
Lizzie  thrust  between  the  lace  curtains,  and 
below  in  the  yard  I  observed  Teddy  warning 
the  alarmed  Alfie  of  his  Mother's  proximity, 
and  helping  him  to  climb  into  the  giant  dust- 
bin, where  he  crushed  down  the  lid  upon  his 
yellow  head. 

But  there  was  a  pause  in  the  animated 
157 


Gutter-Babies 

volley  of  questions  from  the  next-door  win- 
dow, and  once  again  the  voice  of  the  Twins' 
Mother  addressed  me,  — 

"Did  yer  shout,  Miss?" 

I  had  seen  a  barrel-organ,  wheeling  round 
the  corner  at  the  top  of  the  street,  and  as  it 
set  up  its  merry  tune  and  gathered  the 
Gutter-babies  quickly  into  an  admiring  ring, 
I  began  to  speculate  upon  the  mental  agony 
of  Alfie  in  his  insanitary  prison-house. 

"  Did  yer  cry,  Miss?  "  called  the  voice  from 
below  again,  anxious  for  admittance. 

"Oh,  yes,  come  up,  please,  Mrs.  Ball!" 

And  she  came,  panting  heavily  up  the  nar- 
row stairs.  She  sat  down  nervously  on  the 
extreme  edge  of  the  wooden  chair,  which  I 
was  careful  to  wipe  for  her  with  the  true 
hospitality  and  courtesy  of  the  Gutter  Host- 
ess, and  looked  round  her  curiously.  What 
the  good  lady  saw  appeared  in  some  mysteri- 
ous way  to  discomfort  her  exceedingly,  for 
she  became  gradually  less  and  less  at  her  ease 
and  more  and  more  reserved  about  the  real 
object  of  her  visit. 

The  Twins'  Mother  was  obviously  far  too 
158 


"  At  Home  "  in  Guttergarten 

respectable  to  be  a  real  friend  to  us,  and  I 
watched  her  growing  embarrassment  with 
honest  concern  as  she  sat  before  me,  preten- 
tious and  self-conscious  and  a  little  too  vul- 
garly fat. 

"Ain't  it  a  warm  dy?"  she  began,  after  an 
awkward  pause,  during  which  we  had  both  of 
us  searched  our  vocabulary  wildly  for  some- 
thing appropriate  and  worthy  of  the  tremen- 
dous occasion.  It  was  a  relief  to  have  found 
a  topic,  and  we  both  clung  to  it  with  mutual 
eagerness. 

"  Yer  feels  it,  I  sh'd  think,  don't  yer,  Miss? 
I  can't  abear  these  'ere  mucky  little  flats 
meself .  I  'm  sure  I  Ve  often  said  to  Blanchie 
as  'ow  I  don't  know  as  'ow  you  can  stop  in 
the  street  for  a  'our,  and  I  tells  Alfie  if  I 
catches  'e  a-playin'  'ere,  I  '11  give  'e  somethink, 
and  'is  father,  too!" 

Her  attention  was  fortunately  quite  en- 
tirely occupied  by  the  uncongenial  circum- 
stances in  which  she  found  herself  now  un- 
pleasantly fixed.  But  outside,  in  the  asphalt 
court  of  the  Gutter  Castle,  a  miserable  little 
figure  had  just  emerged  cautiously  from  its 

159 


Gutter-Babies 

hiding-place,  and  stood  like  a  forlorn  and 
hunted  little  rabbit  while  Teddy  busily 
picked  a  large  portion  of  the  contents  of  the 
giant  dust-bin  out  of  its  fluffy  hair.  In  "Our 
Set"  we  had  often  despised  Alfie  and  longed 
to  get  at  his  effeminate  taste  with  a  pair  of 
scissors,  but  just  now  I  felt  in  my  heart  only 
the  tenderest  pity  for  him,  which  increased 
as  his  mother  continued  to  protract  her  visit. 

And  still  I  remained  in  complete  ignorance 
as  to  what  I  owed  the  pleasure  of  her  com- 
panionship. 

At  last  the  Twins'  Mother,  with  a  severe 
rheumatic  twinge,  rose  from  her  chair  and 
prepared  to  make  her  departure.  That  great 
psychological  moment  had  at  last  arrived  for 
which  we  had  been  working  up  our  emotions 
during  the  whole  of  the  constrained  interview. 
Mrs.  Ball  must  now  speak  and  I  must  hear. 
Beads  of  perspiration  gathered  among  the 
worried  lines  on  her  brow;  she  fidgetted  nerv- 
ously with  her  satin  bonnet-strings,  and  at 
last  began :  — 

"Seein'  as  'ow  you  'pears  to  'ave  took  er 
fancy  to  our  Blanchie,  Miss,  me  and  Mr. 

160 


"  At  Home  "  in  Guttergarten 

Ball  was  a-thinkin*  together  as  'ow  it  might 
be  just  as  well  if  you  'ad  'er  altogether.  The 
father  'e  don't  py  nothink  fer  'er  now,  come 
this  two  year,  and  we  was  thinkin'  as  'ow  you 
might  make  a  little  out  of  'er;  she  do  earn, 
but  not  near  so  much  now  as  she  should,  and 
it  don't  py  us  to  'ave  'er,  not  by  no  means. 
She  won't  turn  out  no  credit  neither;  she's 
got  a  bad  mother  to  'er  and  all,  and  me  and 
Mr.  Ball,  of  course,  as  you'll  understand, 
Miss,  we  'as  ter  think  of  our  connection!" 

It  was  out  at  last,  and,  after  all,  just  then 
it  did  not  seem  such  a  tremendous  proposi- 
tion. Beneath  the  gross  impertinence  of  the 
scheme  there  lurked  probably  some  generous 
and  affectionate  ambition  for  the  Art-nurs- 
ling, who  must  always  have  been  an  impossi- 
ble duckling  in  the  baby  farm  of  the  Twins' 
Mother.  But  it  was  the  aggressive  pathos  of 
the  situation  that  really  conquered  and  be- 
wildered me. 

In  Guttergarten  there  is  a  certain  preten- 
tious portion  of  the  lower  middle  class  which 
besieges  one's  sympathy  and  literally  clam- 
ours for  consideration.  There  are  tremendous 

161 


Gutter-Babies 

odds  against  one  in  dealing  with  a  person  so 
intensely  and  extravagantly  pathetic  as  Mrs. 
Ball.  One  never  dares  to  pity  the  tragic 
figure  of  the  homeless  Gutter  hero,  who  in 
spite  of  his  rags  and  poverty  yet  manages  to 
preserve  in  every  crisis  the  gracious  and 
almost  condescending  dignity  of  the  splendid 
appeal  of  Guttergarten.  I  am  persuaded  that 
it  was  the  pathetic  respectability  of  Mrs.  Ball 
that  overcame  me. 

The  patient  struggles  of  Ragged  Molly  the 
Poetess,  the  confessions  of  Special  Johnny, 
the  fateful  career  of  the  two  Lizzies  in  the 
Gutter  Castle,  could  not  have  moved  me  so 
completely  as  this  episode  with  the  Twins' 
Mother.  A  long  experience  has  taught  me 
to  look  out  over  the  writhing  anguished  pic- 
ture of  Guttergarten  with  cold  eyes  and  cyn- 
ical unconcern,  but  Mrs.  Ball  with  a  headache 
or  an  unprofitable  nurse  child  was  completely 
disarming.  It  is  most  unfair  to  the  British 
Public  that  they  should  be  exposed  to  the 
inconvenient  attacks  of  such  incurably  pa- 
thetic maniacs. 

I  even  found  myself  hanging  out  of  the 
162 


«  At  Home  "  in  Guttergarten 

window  again,  to  supervise  her  safe  retreat 
as  far  as  the  corner,  so  thoroughly  were  my 
deepest  sympathies  aroused.  I  had  vague 
fears  that  one  of  those  heavy  milk  drays,  with 
their  clanging  cargo  of  empty  cans,  might 
swing  round  the  corner,  as  they  often  do,  and 
interrupt  her  homeward  journey. 

It  was  with  an  exquisite  sense  of  comfort 
that  I  saw  her  at  last,  in  spite  of  her  pathetic 
breeding,  turn  in  at  the  "Blue  Star."  As  I 
hung  there  above  the  eternal  Game  of  Gut- 
tergarten, the  Strange  Woman  next  door 
stuck  out  a  head. 

"EveninY'  she  said,  and  I  politely  re- 
peated the  word  after  her.  I  knew  that  she 
was  a  Strange  Woman.  I  knew  also  that  she 
would  make  suspicious  and  enterprising  little 
dives  into  the  Psychic  Me,  to  search  there  for 
any  kinship  with  her  own  Strange  Sisterhood. 
And  yet  I  hung  on  there,  like  a  huge  human 
porcupine  covered  with  self-righteous  bris- 
tles, where  her  poor  soul  might  sting  and  flay 
itself. 

"Ain't  this  er  Nole  ter  live  in,  darlin'  ?" 
she  began. 

163 


Gutter-Babies 

I  explained  cautiously,  with  due  consider- 
ation of  the  shock  which  I  might  be  inflicting, 
that  it  was  my  unswerving  loyalty  and  devo- 
tion to  the  "Nole"  which  held  me  glued  and 
fascinated  in  the  deep  of  it. 

"Well,  I  suppose  yer  keeps  yerself  ter  yer- 
self,  anyways,  don't  cher?" 

Below  us  Blanchie,  with  a  new  air  of  home- 
liness, was  playing  Johnny  "up  the  line"  on 
my  doorstep. 

"Ain't  yer  respectable,  then?"  went  on 
the  Strange  One. 

I  indignantly  denied  the  abominable 
charge. 

"I'm  comin*  in  ter  call  on  yer,  me  dear," 
announced  the  Strange  Woman,  and  with- 
drew her  head. 

I  sent  Blanchie  on  an  errand,  and  waited 
nervously.  Up  my  stairs  came  the  heavy 
uncertain  tread  of  the  Stranger,  and  ceased 
suddenly.  In  the  silence  that  followed  I 
heard  a  shuddering  sob,  and  looking  out 
observed  the  situation. 

On  the  wall  over  the  tiny  twisting  staircase 
hung  a  cheap  Crucifix,  and  below,  reeling 

164 


The  Strange  Woman  lurched  against  the  bannisters  1 


"  At  Home  "  in  Guttergarten 

against  the  painted  banisters,  scarcely  sober, 
lurched  the  Strange  Woman  with  her  tears. 
And  even  as  I  watched  and  wondered  what  it 
meant,  she  drew  herself  together  and  crept 
away  into  a  more  familiar  atmosphere  with 
shaking  shoulders,  and  Heaven  only  knows 
what  misery  in  her  heart. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

The  Elder  Lizzie 

SCABBY  'ead,  yer  lousy !" 
"  I  ain't;  —  lousy  yerself." 
"Git  out  of  it!" 

"  I  '11  gob  in  yer  eye  —  take  that!  " 
Over  the  way,  in  the  asphalt  court  of  the 
Gutter  Castle,  two  of  the  little  wild  people 
were  quarrelling  on  the  new  green  seats 
which  the  London  County  Council  have 
this  summer  generously  placed  at  their  dis- 
posal. 

I  was  in  time  to  see  Blanchie  carry  out  her 
unpleasant  threat  very  efficaciously.  But  I 
had  by  this  time  suffered  some  sharp  experi- 
ences in  the  rearing  of  Gutter-babies,  and  this 
one  should  know  what  was  best  for  herself. 
I  did  not,  therefore,  interfere  in  their  little 
differences.  It  was  certainly  not  my  fault  that 
Blanchie  had  left  off  her  stockings  temporar- 
ily and  was  wearing  a  rusty  jersey  over  her 
scrappy  petticoats.  The  pose  of  her  slim 

1 66 


The  Elder  Lizzie 

bare  ankles,  and  the  naughty  mischief  in  her 
face  veiled  under  a  web  of  tangled  black  hair, 
innocent  just  now  of  curls  and  ribbons,  was 
still  oddly  suggestive  of  the  Music  Halls. 
And  yet  one  felt  that  the  Art  Angel  might 
have  wisely  withdrawn  into  his  Heaven  while 
the  Nursling  was  in  the  safe-keeping  of  Special 
Johnny. 

She  had  been  minding  the  elder  Lizzie's 
baby  for  a  penny  this  afternoon,  and  during 
the  whole  of  that  fierce  dialogue  had  held  it 
clasped  tenderly  in  her  thin  arms  against  her 
narrow  childish  bosom,  and  hushed  its  bitter 
weeping  with  frequent  pseudo-maternal 
caresses.  The  elder  Lizzie  was  exceptionally 
busy.  It  was  her  turn  in  the  wash-house,  and 
from  time  to  time  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  her 
worried  figure  flitting  through  the  yard,  often 
loaded  with  the  eccentric  fuel  of  rotten  boots 
and  miscellaneous  de'bris  with  which  she  kept 
the  copper  at  boiling-point,  and  filled  the  air 
of  Guttergarten  with  suffocating  odours.  A 
thunder-storm  was  riding  up  over  the  dark- 
ened sky.  There  had  always  been  trouble  in 
the  air  when  the  elder  Lizzie  washed.  It  was, 

167 


Gutter-Babies 

indeed,  a  part  of  the  tragedy  of  her  life  that 
she  never  had  a  day  for  drying.  She  was  talk- 
ing about  it  even  now,  in  that  saddened  and 
yet  aggressive  voice  which  had  so  often  and 
so  insistently  told  us  the  weary  story  of  a 
Gutter-mother's  grief. 

There  was  much  matter  for  gossip  to-day, 
too.  It  was  holiday  time  and  there  had  been 
quite  a  small  commotion  round  the  Gutter 
Castle  over  the  removal  of  Teddy  to  the 
Fever  Hospital.  Teddy  had  not  behaved  very 
well  himself,  and  there  had  been  some  diffi- 
culty in  persuading  him  to  go  quietly. 

He  did  n't  feel  the  fever,  and  the  sore 
throat,  he  told  us,  would  not  be  near  so  bad 
if  he  could  stay  at  home.  Blanchie's  heart 
had  been  wrung  by  the  scene,  and  for  many 
days  after  she  clung  to  the  painfully  exciting 
memory  of  it,  and  hugged  her  woe  as  only  a 
Gutter-woman-baby  can. 

But  at  the  time  she  had  been  able  to  com- 
fort the  afflicted  Teddy  upon  his  outward- 
bound  journey.  She  had  raced  up  the  street 
after  the  departing  hero,  and  screamed  into 
his  hungering  ears  the  last  cheering  message 

1 68 


The  Elder  Lizzie 

of  the  Gutter,  —  "They  sends  yer  'ome  ter 
peel  now!" 

And  even  at  this  moment  Johnny  was  being 
told,  out  there  in  the  Gutter  Castle  play- 
ground, that  he  was  not  near  such  a  fine  fel- 
low as  Teddy.  And  somewhere  in  a  little 
white  bed  in  a  big  ward,  a  red-eyed  homesick 
young  exile  was  weeping  bitterly  for  the 
Yesterday  of  a  Gutter-baby's  life. 

And  yet  another  voice,  the  voice  which  had 
called  "Rabbits,  cheap  and  beautiful  rab- 
bits, from  a  shillin'!"  through  Guttergarten 
for  many  a  year  was  silenced  to-day.  Old 
Hawkins  had  set  out  from  the  Gutter  Castle 
this  morning,  with  his  white  head  bent  a 
little  lower  than  usual,  perhaps,  and  without 
the  usual  invitation  to  us  concerning  his 
rabbits. 

"I  can't  py  no  rent  wot  I  ain't  got!"  he 
told  the  two  Lizzies;  and  the  rest  of  his  sor- 
rows had  been  crushed  out  under  the  motor 
'bus  where  he  had  forced  a  refuge  for  himself, 
and  a  way  out  of  Guttergarten. 

But  was  that  all? 

This  morning  as  the  Gutter  Parson  came 
169 


Gutter-Babies 

back  this  way  from  Mass,  a  swarm  of  Gutter- 
babies  hailed  the  appearance  of  his  tall  black 
figure  amongst  them  with  ecstasy.  The  long 
string  of  the  laundry  girls  called  merrily  to 
him  over  their  pert  shoulders,  "Mornin*, 
Uncle!"  Johnny  wheeled  his  wooden  box- 
cart  over  his  toes  without  any  apologies,  and 
Blanchie  was  clinging  to  his  hand  in  preco- 
cious flirtation. 

Yet  it  was  here,  in  the  very  heart  of  us, 
that  the  Gutter  Parson  was  really  most  him- 
self. He  stood  there  amongst  us,  in  every 
thought  and  fibre  of  his  Self-life  so  infinitely 
removed  from  the  earth-bound  game  of 
Guttergarten  as  it  rolled  below  his  feet.  We 
were  crude  and  vulgar  and  primitive,  we  were 
stubborn  and  strangely  disobedient  children; 
we  hugged  the  Anti-Christ  in  the  immoral 
secret  of  our  homes,  and  our  playground  was 
the  haunt  of  devils;  and  yet  he  knew  that, 
Pagans  as  we  were,  within  the  sympathy  and 
influence  of  his  consecrated  personality,  we 
were  really  his  to  charm,  his  to  be  called  out 
one  by  one,  and  acknowledged  individually, 
as  our  human  need  of  him  arose. 

170 


The  Elder  Lizzie 

He  might  of  course  have  chosen  a  very 
different  career.  And  yet  I  do  not  believe,  in 
spite  of  our  singular  want  of  recognition,  that 
his  deepest  gifts  were  really  ever  wasted  here, 
or  thrown  away  upon  the  children  of  the 
Gutter,  as  they  played  with  their  mud-pies 
far  below  the  shadow  of  his  lofty  ideals.  We 
should  have  missed  something  if  he  had  been 
less  of  a  Visionary.  We  should  most  certainly 
have  known  if  he  had  been  a  little  less  of  a 
Man. 

And  this  morning,  as  he  played  a  little 
while  in  the  sunshine  of  Guttergarten,  out  of 
the  Gutter  Castle  had  come  to  him  suddenly, 
with  his  ashen  face  covered  in  trembling 
hands,  a  dreadful  Child  of  the  Gutter  with  a 
shadow  on  his  brow. 

It  was  the  boy-husband  who  had  occupied 
the  next-door  flat  to  the  Lizzies.  He  had  had 
a  small  disturbance  with  his  wife  the  night 
before,  and  he  had  only  given  her  one  under 
the  chin  to  go  on  with,  for  cheeking  him  about 
his  slack  work.  He  had  never  been  able  to 
stop  her  jaw  when  she  once  started,  but  this 
time  she  did  not  answer  back.  She  would 

171 


Gutter-Babies 

never  answer  back  any  more.  And  yet  he 
knew  that  white  and  ghastly  head  that  he 
had  silenced  would  chatter  to  him  in  his 
prison  cell,  would  mouth  and  grimace  at 
him  in  the  supreme  moment  of  disgrace, 
and  go  down  laughing  with  him  into  hell 
itself. 

They  fetched  him  away  in  the  afternoon 
and  he  made  only  a  very  poor  fight  of  it.  In  a 
corner  of  the  deserted  home  which  had  been 
so  abruptly  broken  up  a  baby  cried  for  him. 
In  the  street  Guttergarten  booed  and  spat 
its  contempt  after  him.  But  the  murderer's 
hand  still  tingled  with  a  friendly  grip  and  he 
knew  that  the  Gutter  Parson  would  come  to 
him.  All  this  had  happened  and  yet  the  elder 
Lizzie  was  still  fully  occupied  in  her  own  nar- 
row Self-being,  and  its  small  and  confined 
activities.  She  was  still  able  to  concentrate 
all  the  energies  of  her  petty  domesticated 
intellect  upon  that  threatening  storm  as  it 
hovered  in  ill-omened  menace  over  her  day's 
labour. 

It  was  not  the  fault,  but  the  great  misfor- 
tune, indeed,  it  was  the  whole  tragedy  of  the 

172 


The  Elder  Lizzie 

elder  Lizzie,  that  Guttergarten  was  a  desert 
that  would  not  blossom  for  her. 

The  thunder  was  driving  Blanchie  in  to 
tea,  and  I  could  see  that  she  was  intending  to 
offer  hospitality  to  the  baby  and  to  Johnny 
also. 

" Come  in ! "  I  could  hear  her  saying,  "and 
we'll  play  mothers  and  fathers  with  the 
baby!" 

We  had  tea,  and  Blanchie  presided  over 
the  feast,  cutting  huge  slices  for  Johnny  and 
nursing  the  elder  Lizzie's  baby.  Afterwards 
they  carried  out  their  plan,  and  played 
fathers  and  mothers  in  a  little  furnished  room 
which  they  made  for  themselves  under  the 
table.  Blanchie  washed  pocket-handker- 
chiefs and  the  baby  cried  a  good  deal,  and 
Johnny  went  out  to  look  for  work  and  came 
back  again  without  any  luck. 

"We'll  'ave  a  row  next!"  suggested 
Blanchie.  "Miss,  'old  the  Byby;  we're  goin' 
to  'ave  a  lovely  row!" 

They  had  their  row.  Johnny  went  under 
the  table  and  began  to  break  up  the  home, 
flinging  bits  of  the  furniture  out  of  the  little 

173 


Gutter-Babies 

windows,  which  had  been  carefully  arranged 
in  brown  paper,  and  tastefully  decorated  with 
muslin  curtains  by  Blanchie's  domesticated 
genius.  Johnny's  language,  while  he  faith- 
fully executed  his  part  of  the  play,  was  too 
realistic  to  be  recorded  here. 

Meanwhile  Blanchie  walked  up  and  down 
outside  wringing  her  hands. 

"Oh,  Johnny,  do  be  quiet,"  she  wailed; 
"oh,  just  'ark  to  'im!  There  won't  be  a  stick 
left!" 

In  the  middle  of  the  tragic  scene  the  elder 
"Lizzie  arrived  and  demanded  her  baby. 

"We  can't  play  fathers  and  mothers  with- 
out a  baby,"  said  Blanchie.  "  Can't  yer  leave 
'im  a  bit  longer?  I  won't  charge  yer  nothink 
hextra!" 

It  was  just  what  one  might  have  expected 
of  Lizzie,  that  she  should  not  understand  in 
the  least  why  they  could  not  go  on  with  their 
"bleedin'  nonsense  without  her  baby." 

No  wonder  that  the  elder  Lizzie  had  never 
been  a  happy  woman.  I  began  dimly  to  guess 
at  the  secret  tragedy  of  that  lonely  heart. 
Blanchie  was  inclined  to  take  the  abrupt 

174 


The  Elder  Lizzie 

interference  in  her  domestic  play  quite  seri- 
ously, but  Johnny  was  ready  with  other 
suggestions. 

"  Never  mind !  Let 's  'ave  a  trunk  murder," 
he  ventured. 

"And  I'll  be  the  little  'ound  wot  smelled 
out  yer  corpse!" 

As  I  left  them  so,  —  fully  absorbed  in  the 
intense  seriousness  of  their  play,  —  I  found 
myself  wondering  sadly  how  long  it  would  be 
before  they,  too,  would  lose,  in  the  deadening 
reality  of  Gutter  domesticity,  the  capacity 
to  think  and  care. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

The  Open  Door  in  Gutter garten 

MANNERS  maketh  the  Gutter- 
baby. 
Rags  will  not  do  it  for  us,  nor 
can  a  long  abstinence  from  soap  and  water 
effect  the  miracle.  It  is  altogether  a  matter 
of  habit  and  imitative  cultivation  in  the  Inner 
Way.  But  we  cannot  deny  that  the  Gutter- 
dwellers  have  their  own  peculiar  conception 
of  etiquette.  Even  in  such  simple  common- 
place details  as  the  knocking  at  a  door,  or 
the  placing  of  a  chair  for  a  caller,  or  the  hand- 
ling of  a  knife,  or  the  helping  one's  self  to 
sugar,  or  the  blowing  of  a  nose,  it  is  quite 
easy  for  the  foreigner  to  give  himself  away 
badly.  In  such  an  event  the  courteous  Gutter- 
babies  will  condemn  your  hideous  blunder 
with  one  big  stare  of  amazement  and  then 
hurriedly  cover  up  your  confusion,  feeling  in 
their  warm  and  charitable  little  hearts  only 
a  great  pity  for  such  appalling  ignorance.  It 

176 


The  Open  Door  in  Guttergarten 

is  fortunate  that  amongst  one's  acquaintance 
there  are  a  few  intimates,  such  as  Johnny  or 
Blanchie,  who  will  take  one  aside  after  the 
catastrophe  and  tenderly  explain  the  gross- 
ness  of  the  error. 

"That  was  rude,  Miss,  but  of  course  we 
knows  yer  can't  'elp  it,  —  in  course  we  don't 
expect  yer  to  know  hevery think!" 

Some  of  the  Gutter-dwellers  are,  of  course, 
much  more  fastidious  in  their  appreciation  of 
society  than  others. 

Even  in  Guttergarten  there  is  a  Bohemian 
Set,  who  take  infinite  pleasure  in  capriciously 
thwarting  every  anciently  established  con- 
vention which  contributes  to  the  personal 
comfort  and  convenience  of  their  respectable 
neighbours. 

The  advertisement  of  this  attitude  of  mind 
is  the  Open  Door. 

The  Twin's  Mother,  for  instance,  would 
always  have  carefully  shut  her  front  door. 
Mine  is  kept  open,  in  spite  of  the  protesta- 
tions of  Blanchie,  on  strict  principle,  because 
I  cannot  lie  to  the  Gutter-dwellers,  and  I  will 
not  pretend  to  be  what  every  Gutter-baby  in 

177 


Gutter-Babies 

the  neighbourhood  knows  I  am  not.  How 
could  I,  who  am  for  ever  making  mistakes 
and  doing  the  impossible,  pose  as  respectable 
or  good  form  in  Guttergarten?  But  neverthe- 
less I  have  a  great  admiration  for  the  Twins' 
Mother;  if  I  were  more  like  her  I  know  I 
should  be  a  better  woman,  even  if  it  made 
Blanchie  feel  naughty.  And  I  would  ^not 
knock  on  her  door  twice,  as  if  she  did  not 
occupy  the  whole  of  the  house  herself,  if  I 
could  only  remember. 

But  that  is  just  it.  To  be  the  real  thing  in 
Guttergarten  and  to  be  fit  to  associate  upon 
equal  terms  with  the  Best  People,  it  is  quite 
necessary  to  have  been  reared  and  educated 
in  the  school  of  the  Gutter.  How  can  anyone 
possibly  remember  all  the  things  I  have  to? 
It  can  only  be  done  if  the  Gutter-ritual  is 
branded  upon  one's  life  and  habits,  until  it 
has  become  part  of  one's  very  nature. 

But  what  is  the  real  intention  behind  the 
idea  of  the  Open  Door? 

It  is,  without  doubt,  a  defiance  of  that 
strange,  spurious  growth  of  human  reserve, 
which  is  the  root  of  all  modern  respectability. 
178 


The  Open  Door  in  Guttergarten 

Primitive  nature  has  in  its  foolishness  nothing 
to  conceal.  Shame  is  an  empty  word  and 
repression  an  untested  faculty.  Here  is  no 
introspection  or  self -observation,  and  there- 
fore the  Open  Door  is  a  perfectly  genuine 
invitation  to  the  "nosey"  to  come  and  see, 
where  there  is  nothing  that  may  be  seen,  — 
to  come  and  acquire  knowledge,  where  there  is 
no  experience.  For  behind  the  Open  Door, 
to  the  dwellers  there,  is  an  atmosphere  of  un- 
fathomable mystery.  And  if  you  make  any 
attempt  to  open  the  eyes  of  a  blind  Gutter- 
baby  he  will  always  tell  you  that  he  can  see 
"nothink  at  all  in  it  all!"  It  was  late  in  the 
story  of  the  evolution  of  Man  that  there  was 
born  the  desire  to  hide  and  seek  and  the  sud- 
den terror  of  the  Foe,  which  is  Scandal. 

The  first  hermit,  perhaps,  was  not  quite  a 
success,  as  history  almost  suggests,  but  the 
Man  who  comes  to  the  front  in  Guttergarten 
is  the  man  who  keeps  "  'isself  to  'isself." 

It  is  the  supreme  desire  to  rise  above  the 
sordid  common  things  of  Home  Sweet  Home, 
which,  though  still  essential  to  us,  have  lately 
become  ugly.  It  is  an  effort  to  conceal  the 

179 


Gutter-Babies 

petty  appetites,  the  small  economies,  and  the 
curling-pins  of  life. 

Johnny  and  I  do  not  wear  curling-pins,  but 
if  we  did  I  am  sure  we  should  do  so  quite  care- 
lessly. The  two  Lizzies  generally  appear  in 
them  on  week-days,  and  Blanchie  always  gets 
special  permission  to  go  to  school  in  crackers, 
when  there  is  a  concert  in  the  evening. 

Some  day  it  will  not  be  good  form  to  eat 
in  public.  Then  I  suppose  we  shall  not  be 
allowed  to  suck  oranges  in  the  Pit  and  the 
door  will  be  closed  on  dinner-parties. 

But  it  is  really  quite  a  nuisance  to  be  so 
tiresomely  fastidious  as  some  of  the  Gutter- 
dwellers  have  become. 

Through  the  Open  Door,  and  straight  on 
into  our  little  scullery,  as  Blanchie  and  I  were 
washing-up  after  a  tea-fight,  came  a  lean, 
shabby  figure  with  unsteady  progress. 

"  I  wished  to  speak  to  yer  about  me  night's 
lodging,  Ma'am!"  it  said. 

I  left  the  washing-up  to  Blanchie,  who  pro- 
tested vehemently  at  the  injustice,  and  re- 
tired into  my  study  with  the  lean  woman. 

It  was  a  long  story  without  any  particular 
1 80 


The  Open  Door  in  Guttergarten 

information  and  an  utterly  discreet  omittance 
of  facts,  to  which  I  listened  while  the  lean 
tramp  had  her  supper  and  added  to  Blanchie's 
domestic  troubles  in  the  scullery. 

In  the  middle  of  it  Blanchie  stuck  a  flushed 
and  indignant  face  round  the  door. 

"  It's  ten  of  'em,  Miss,"  she  said  warningly, 
"and  I  ain't  goin'  ter  bed  till  this  business  is 
settled!" 

But  the  difficulty  was,  how  were  we  to  dis- 
pose of  the  lean  tramp?  She  had  tried  the 
common  lodging-houses  in  the  neighbour- 
hood and  found  them  so  unladylike ;  the  Free 
Shelter  was  not  for  her,  she  being  a  very  little 
over  the  age  limit  as  she  had  told  us,  with  the 
suggestion  of  a  blush;  and  the  Casual  Ward 
would  not  free  its  refugees  until  Tuesday 
morning,  and  that  meant  that  the  lean  tramp 
would  have  to  do  a  day's  work  on  Monday,  in 
exchange  for  hospitality.  She  was  n't  used 
to  rough  work  and  they  "treated  yer  like 
cattle  in  there." 

It  was,  indeed,  a  problem,  and  Blanchie 
refused  to  entertain  the  idea  of  putting  her 
up  for  the  night.  Why,  she  might  be  a  mur- 

181 


Gutter-Babies 

derer!  Perhaps  we  might  be  able  to  find  a 
new  and  unexplored  lodging-house,  so  we 
wandered  out  into  Guttergarten  full  of  our 
quest. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  and  Saturday,  the  Gut- 
ter-market was  alive  and  in  full  swing,  as 
we  pushed  our  way  along.  My  companion 
seemed  far  less  keenly  interested  than  I  was, 
and  followed  hesitatingly  after  me;  I  was, 
indeed,  more  than  once  seriously  afraid  of 
losing  her. 

11  Come  on,"  I  called  to  her  across  the  bob- 
bing crowd.  "It's  getting  late,  we  shan't  get 
in  anywhere!" 

I  heard  her  whining  dismally  behind  me, 
"There's  no  place  in  the  world  for  such  as  I; 
thank  Gawd,  there's  a  roof  in  'eaven.  I  won- 
der I  ain't  a  corpse,  the  way  I  'm  treated,  —  I 
say,  I  wonder  I  ain't  a  corpse!" 

"Cheer  up,"  I  said,  with  some  irritation; 
for  I  felt  that  I  was  doing  a  great  deal  for  this 
lean  and  unknown  stranger. 

"  I  'm  used  to  'avin'  my  word  trusted ! "  she 
said  bitterly.  " People  always  b'lieves  me!" 

"Oh,  they  don't  believe  me,"  said  I  reas- 
182 


The  Open  Door  in  Guttergarten 

suringly;  "I  have  to  give  references  to  prove 
what  I  say!" 

I  knew  that  I  had  shocked  the  lean  tramp, 
but  now  we  had  reached  a  lodging-house,  and 
stood  in  the  little  office  interviewing  the 
deputy. 

"Could  you  give  my  friend  a  night's  lodg- 
ing?" I  enquired  politely. 

"I  could  if  she's  payin';  I  don't  care  for 
the  looks  of  'er  meself!" 

"Oh,  but  she's  quite  respectable!"  I  as- 
sured the  deputy.  "In  fact  she's  really 
rather  strange  in  the  kitchen  amongst  the 
other  women,  but  you  '11  make  her  at  home, 
won't  you?" 

"Yes,  Miss,"  said  the  deputy,  still  a  little 
doubtfully;  but  at  this  point  the  lean  tramp 
interfered. 

"Stop,  Miss;  this  was  the  place  where  I 
come  last  Saturday  week,  and  there  was  n't 
no  towel  after  me  wash-up!" 

"There  are  three  towels  down  there,"  de- 
clared the  deputy  reprovingly. 

"  I  could  n't  stop  'ere  no'ow!"  said  the  lean 
one,  and  we  moved  on. 

183 


Gutter-Babies 

"  Perhaps  we  had  better  try  the  Free  Shel- 
ter," I  suggested. 

There  the  door  was  abruptly  shut  in  our 
faces. 

"There's  manners!"  said  the  lean  one  bit- 
terly; "  I  say,  I  wonders  I  ain't  a  corpse;  I  'm 
too  nice  for  this  world;  I  can't  stand  sich 
ways!" 

I  left  her  discreetly  hiding  round  the  cor- 
ner, and  returned  alone  to  the  attack  upon 
the  Free  Shelter.  This  time  I  got  admittance, 
and  within,  I  heard  the  story  of  the  lean  per- 
son which  she  had  failed  to  tell  me  herself. 
As  I  passed  her,  still  lurking  in  the  shadows, 
she  muttered: 

"The  'ole  evenin'  I've  wasted  skirmishin' 
about  after  you;  wish  I'd  never  met  you! 
You're  not  used  to  ladies,  you  ain't!" 

"The  Casual  Ward's  your  best  place,"  I 
answered,  as  I  hastened  nervously  away  in 
the  direction  of  Home  and  an  irate  Blanchie. 
"Goodnight!" 

Blanchie  greeted  me  with  dignity,  but  im- 
mense relief. 

"Yer  fair  frit  me,  Miss,  stoppin'  out 
184 


The  Open  Door  in  Guttergarten 

like  this,  and  yer  ain't  very  wise  if  yer 
can't  see  through  a  swindlin'  murderer  like 
that." 

The  next  day  the  Gutter  Parson  came  to 
ask  if  I  had  been  able  to  do  anything  for  the 
nice  woman  he  had  sent  me. 

"She  ought  to  be  pole-axed,  she  ought," 
cried  Blanchie  from  the  scullery. 

"Ah!"  said  the  Gutter  Parson  sadly;  "it 
is  very  seldom  that  one  can  do  anything  for 
respectable  people!" 

At  any  rate,  it  would  seem  as  though 
Heaven  did  not  begin  for  the  respectable 
people  in  their  Gutter-life. 

But  if  it  is  difficult  for  us  to  live  up  to  the 
curious  ritual  of  Gutter-decency  it  is  also  a 
wretchedly  poor  representation  of  courtesy 
that  we  in  our  turn  offer  them  through  the 
official  channel.  My  observations  have  been 
made  among  the  Gutter-dwellers,  living  very 
much  as  they  do,  on  quite  as  limited  an  in- 
come, and  I  have  seen  in  my  experience  very 
little  oppression  or  injustice  to  them,  but  I 
have  seen  a  great  deal  of  unnecessary  dis- 
courtesy and  lack  of  sympathy.  In  the  dis- 

185 


Gutter-Babies 

pensary  waiting-room,  in  the  philanthropic 
office,  and  even  in  their  own  poor  little  homes, 
for  which  they  are  forced  to  pay  absurdly 
high  rents,  I  have  watched  them  hustled  and 
worried  and  driven  like  obstinate  cattle,  be- 
fore they  have  had  the  chance  to  prove  that 
they  are  not  going  to  be  any  trouble  to  any- 
body. 

No  one  can  know  the  harm  that  a  Sister  of 
Charity  with  bad  manners,  or  a  district  nurse 
with  a  harsh  voice,  or  a  door  shut  sharply  in 
a  tipsy  face,  or  even  a  Gutter  Parson  who 
misses  a  friendly  greeting  in  the  street,  be- 
cause he  is  thinking  deeply  of  something  else, 
can  do.  Below  the  brusque  and  unmannerly 
officialism,  the  heart  of  the  State  is  profoundly 
considerate  for  her  poorer  children,  but  the 
Gutter-dwellers  do  not  see  this.  They  only 
know  that  they  must  prepare  for  insult  and 
offence  if  they  apply  for  parish  relief.  They 
know  that  they  must  expect  to  pay,  for  what 
is  so  generously  done  for  them,  by  injured 
pride  and  wounded  dignity  at  the  hands  of 
petty  officials,  who  are  paid  for  their  work, 
and  cannot  be  civil  over  it. 

186 


The  Open  Door  in  Guttergarten 

In  every  department  of  life  now,  the  best  of 
everything  is  done  for  our  poor,  but  it  is  often 
done  unkindly.  And  that  is  why  the  wives 
are  generally  sent  on  errands  of  this  nature, 
and  when  possible  the  Gutter-babies.  I  have 
met  Johnny  running  back  from  the  parish 
doctor,  with  a  huge  bottle  of  medicine  under 
his  arm,  but  with  streaming  eyes  — 

"My  mother  ain't  no  bad  woman;  her's 
been  a  good  mother  to  me!" 

It  is,  of  course,  very  necessary  to  deny 
most  of  the  requests  of  the  Gutter-dwellers, 
who  are  by  no  means  always  quite  reasonable 
in  their  demands ;  but  those  who  come  among 
us  to  find  their  vocation  in  the  great  garden 
of  the  Gutter  should  be  warned  that  the 
bruised  hearts  they  are  ready  to  storm  so 
roughly  are  raw  and  quivering  with  sensitive 
pride,  and  often  breaking  with  despair. 

Many  of  the  bold  missionary  spirits  who 
come  to  us  with  brave  words,  and  ask  to  be 
let  loose  among  the  very  poor,  are  disgusted 
and  appalled  when  they  find  themselves 
among  human  swine  in  a  sewer  of  filth  and 
indecency  beyond  their  crudest  dreams. 

187 


Gutter-Babies 

And  yet  there  is  not  a  Gutter-baby  to  be 
found  anywhere  whose  little  heart  is  cold, 
and  the  wilds  of  Guttergarten  can  be  con- 
quered with  a  smile. 


CHAPTER  XX 
The  Time  to  Hop 

SOME  people  only  recognise  four  seasons: 
spring,  when  one  entertains  a  strange 
idea  that  presently  the  sun  will  shine; 
summer,  when  scepticism  ripens  into  honest 
doubt;  autumn,  when  even  the  leaves  get  sick 
of  hope  deferred,  and  climb  down  one  by  one 
from  their  watch-towers  in  the  windy  trees; 
and  dear  old  winter,  when  one  gives  it  all  up 
and  draws  round  the  blazing  hearth  and  is 
really  warm  at  last.  But  this  is  only  a  narrow 
view  of  the  year:  there  are  many  times  and 
many  seasons,  and  here  in  the  Gutter  we  have 
our  own.  There  is  the  season  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  quarter  when  the  pensions  are 
paid  —  that  is  the  time  of  thirst  and  elation ; 
and  the  week  that  comes  after  Bank  Holiday 
and  its  happy  memories  —  this  is  the  time  of 
famine  and  depression. 

But  of  all  the  rolling  seasons  not  one  is  so 
full  of  incident  as  the  time  to  Hop.  It  comes 

189 


Gutter-Babies 

towards  the  end  of  the  out-of-town  season, 
when  the  smart  ladies  lay  aside  the  latest 
thing  in  bathing-costumes,  and  say  to  each 
other  over  the  tea-cups,  —  "Of  course  you 
are  going  North!" 

It  conies  when  the  clerks  and  the  patient 
junior  partners  in  solitary  state  have  ceased 
to  wonder  "Where  do  I  come  in?"  and  have 
been  borne  away  to  departure  platforms  by 
long  caravans  of  weak-kneed  horses  crawling 
snail-like  under  the  shells  of  modest  pilgrim 
baskets;  when  the  school-boy  lays  aside  his 
cricket-bat,  and  neglects  camera  and  bicycle 
to  glance  at  his  holiday  task  the  day  before 
term;  when  in  rural  choirs  rows  of  neat 
but  voiceless  choristers  stumble  prematurely 
through  their  harvest  anthems  before  all  the 
wealth  has  been  gathered  into  London  gar- 
ners. Then  across  the  city,  gaining  force 
from  every  forbidden  slum  and  impenetrable 
alley,  sweeps  a  vast  army  bearing  all  before 
it.  Dim  memories  of  Paris  rebellion  and  mu- 
tinous Sepoys  dance  menacingly  before  the 
brain  till  suddenly  the  truth  flashes  upon  one 
that  the  time  of  hopping  is  now.  There  are 

190 


The  Time  to  Hop 

men,  women,  and  tiny  children,  for  the 
youngest  can  find  a  vocation  among  the  hops, 
and  I  have  known  a  veteran  of  seven  return 
from  his  third  season  with  many  noble 
wounds  of  obstinate  branches  on  bare 
weather-beaten  legs  and  scarred  sunburnt 
hands.  With  them  also  is  the  Priest,  who  has 
left  his  own  vineyard  for  Israel  in  exitu,  and 
the  Salvationist,  who  will  camp  out  alongside 
with  drum  and  chant.  Happy  hoppers!  What 
a  whirl  of  animation  and  excitement  must 
rush  with  them  into  village  street  and  coun- 
try lane!  Yet  it  will  not  be  all  playtime.  The 
hoppers'  day  begins  early,  and  hands  and 
feet  are  weary  and  backs  breaking  under 
cruel  burdens  before  the  sun  goes  down  red 
and  still  behind  the  strange  hills.  Then  the 
evening  picnic  commences,  mugs  clink  cheer- 
ily, and  shrill  hungry  voices  clamour  for 
"  pieces."  Gradually  the  silence  deepens  over 
the  deserted  fields,  and  the  stars  smile  down 
on  the  crowded  tents,  where  hundreds  of 
tired  hoppers,  children  of  the  great  city  that 
never  sleeps,  lie  in  dreamless  exhaustion. 
Sometimes  the  clouds  gather  into  dark  storms 

191 


Gutter-Babies 

that  break  in  heavy  autumn  rains  and  deluge 
the  camp.  Sometimes,  too,  through  the  over- 
packed  tents,  pestilence  stalks  and  claims 
her  own  and  there  are  gaps  in  the  merry, 
noisy  ranks  that  march  homewards  in  late 
September. 

But  what  of  those  who  are  left  behind? 

We  wander  through  lonely  streets  that 
memory  paints  so  full  of  life.  Thin  streams  of 
little  playmates  straggle  obediently  to  the 
peremptory  summons  of  the  nine  o'clock  bell, 
with  scarcely  enough  competition  to  prompt 
the  customary  "Am  oi  lite?"  For  rows  of 
barred  doors  and  boarded  windows  defy  even 
the  school  officials. 

Where  are  the  laundry  girls  with  their 
harsh  laughter  and  bright  faces?  The  hum 
and  stir  of  the  "Eyelet  factory"  is  hushed. 
Tethered  to  a  lamp-post,  the  coster's  donkey 
grazes  peacefully  in  the  Gutter.  The  familiar 
organ  no  longer  winds  its  weary  tune  to  in- 
spire the  artless  grace  of  tiny  dancers.  The 
city  suddenly  becomes  a  prison  grey  and  grim, 
and  one's  heart  is  with  the  hoppers.  For  it  is 
not  London  we  love,  but  those  who  weave  the 

192 


The  Time  to  Hop 

phantasy  for  us.  This  train  of  thought  is  sud- 
denly interrupted  by  the  appearance  of  a 
diminutive  friend,  with  an  enormous  smile  of 
welcome  illuminating  a  dusky  face,  of  which 
even  the  dirtiness  just  now  adds  to  the  at- 
traction. 

"So  you  haven't  gone  hopping,  my 
Johnny!"  How  glad  one  is!  The  Friend 
trots  contentedly  beside,  and  the  enemy  of 
Desolation  spreads  its  wings. 

"Naow,  not  this  time;  Mar  ses  I  jes'  better 
—  that 'sail!" 

I  knew  what  awful  suggestions  the  Friend 
meant  to  convey  of  maternal  wrath,  and 
wondered  what  calamity  had  embittered  that 
lady's  views. 

"Had  Daddy  got  'nicked'?" 
"Naow,  not  fer  more'n  er  month!" 
"Was  little  Markie  sick  again?" 
"Naow,  'e  cut  'is  'and  orf  in  the  mangle, 
but  it  growed  ag'in." 

"Was  there  a  new  baby?" 
"Naow,  we  ain't  goin'  ter  buy  no  more 
of  'em,  we  're  ^savin'  fer  er  guse  at  Christ- 
mas!" 

193 


Gutter-Babies 

Then  I  had  really  no  more  ideas,  and  the 
Friend  must  end  my  suspense. 

"Mar  ses  it's  low  ter  'op,  yer  see,"  he 
added  in  a  hoarse  whisper;  "yer  goes  'oppin, 
'ow  does  yer  cum  back?" 

I  did  not  know  at  all. 

"Woi,  yer  cums  back  jumpin'!" 

I  felt  quite  certain  it  was  more  select  to  be 
alone  in  London.  But  just  then  the  stoicism 
of  the  Friend  collapsed ;  he  shoved  two  grimy 
knuckles  into  his  wide  black  eyes  and  choked. 

"  I  does  wish  I  was  ther,  not  'arf ! " 

So  we  waived  the  etiquette  of  our  social 
superiority,  the  Friend  and  I,  and  hugged 
each  other  in  our  desertion  —  and  talked  of 
the  pleasures  of  hopping  till  our  legs  ached, 
but  our  hearts  danced  on. 

We  pictured  the  welcome  return  of  the 
absent  ones,  when  slum  and  alley  would  echo 
with  the  shout  —  "The  hoppers  are  coming 
—  hurrah!" 

What  hand-grips  and  songs  and  din  of 
revelry  —  but  my  Johnny,  standing  just  a 
little  aloof,  would  forget  what  happened  just 
now,  and,  looking  very  superior,  would  point 

194 


The  Time  to  Hop 

a  derisive  thumb,  and  say,  as  only  he  can, 
—  "Gam!" 

We  grew  quite  cheerful  over  this  mental 
picture  and  the  Friend  said  farewell  in  joyful 
anticipation. 

"I  can't  stop  'ere  gossopin'!"  he  said,  sud- 
denly alive  to  domestic  cares;  "I  mus'  fetch 
the  ole  lydy  'ome,  she'll  be  'arf  drownded!" 

He  swung  through  the  doors  of  the  oppo- 
site "Pub"  into  the  glaring  light  of  the  bar, 
returning  a  moment  later  with  big  eyes  of 
awed  concern. 

"Er's  gawn,  'er  ain't  ther;  O  lor,  wot  'as 
'appened?  I  mus'  slope!" 

He  bustled  off,  jerking  with  newly  installed 
self-importance,  and  the  shadow  of  an  omi- 
nous cloud  closed  over  the  dear  figure  of  my 
Johnny.  He  will  be  equal  to  it,  whatever  it  is, 
and  will  face  it  with  the  dogged  patience  of 
his  class.  But  the  most  attractive  character- 
istic of  the  precocious  Gutter-baby  is  the 
way  in  which  he  suddenly  flings  aside  his 
independence  and  has  to  be  cuddled  back 
into  manliness.  We  all  have  our  moments  of 
weakness. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

The  Game  in  Gutter garten 

THE  great  game  of  the  sexes  that  has 
through  so  many  generations  kept 
the  worlds  rolling  on  in  eccentric 
progress  can  nowhere  else  be  observed  in  its 
crude  and  primitive  force  as  in  Guttergarten. 
Here  among  the  Gutter-dwellers  we  know 
how  to  play  at  the  game  with  a  zest  and  excite- 
ment that  surpasses  shame  and  self-conscious- 
ness and  all  pretence  and  disguise.  Perhaps 
it  is  because  we  are  not  all  busy  scrambling 
after  another  toy  or  slapping  in  the  air  at 
something,  because  so  few  of  us  have  flannel 
shirts  or  running-shoes,  that  we  are  in  such 
deadly  earnest  about  the  great  world-ball  and 
the  simple  old  rule  of  the  eternal  game.  The 
sacred  game  that  is  our  heritage  snatched 
from  the  Fall,  the  game  that  the  gods  gave 
to  us,  before  the  Pythian  festivities  were 
thought  of,  before  the  Dioscuri  were  con- 
ceived, is  played  hard  among  the  Gutter- 

196 


The  Game  in  Guttergarten 

dwellers,  and  is  played  to  the  finish;  and  the 
goal  is  the  enthronement  of  tyrannic  fitness 
and  the  suppression  of  all  that  is  weak  and 
effete.  We  do  not  gloss  it  over  with  a  thin 
varnish  of  insincere  gallantry.  And  we  do  not 
dress  it  up  in  the  pseudo-science  of  modern 
mysticism.  It  is  to  us  still  the  simple  "Game 
of  Life." 

"See  if  I  can't  get  off  to-night!"  confides 
the  little  Gutter-maid  to  her  own  reflection 
in  the  looking-glass,  as  she  frizzles  up  an 
obstinate  curl,  and  digs  the  last  pin  into  her 
"Exhibition  hat." 

All  day  long  in  the  laundry,  or  the  factory, 
or  the  kitchen  of  some  cheap  lodging-house, 
her  little  human  body  has  worked  out  its 
vitality  with  the  desperate  energy  of  strug- 
gling independence.  But  the  hour  of  freedom 
has  come  to  her  at  last,  and  now  her  brain  is 
waking  to  fresh  activities.  The  real  business 
of  life  is  to  be  entered  upon  now,  and  the 
little  Gutter-maid  trips  off  in  her  cheap  finery 
to  find  her  vocation  in  the  eternal  game. 

It  is  the  hour  when  the  game  is  in  full  swing. 
At  every  corner  of  the  street  the  girl  and  boy 

197 


Gutter-Babies 

are  meeting.  They  are  lounging  about  the 
sweet-shops  and  cuddling  each  other  on  the 
top  of  every  'bus  that  rattles  by;  they  are 
waiting  arm-in-arm  outside  the  public  places 
of  amusement,  and  wasting  their  pinched 
savings  and  sweated  wages  in  generous  ex- 
travagance upon  each  other.  We  have  surely 
dropped  into  a  Gutter-Eden,  and  the  mad 
world  is  in  love  again. 

Of  course  there  are  signs  here  as  elsewhere 
that  the  old  game  will  one  day  be  played  out. 
Here  and  there  a  few  individuals  are  dropping 
out  of  their  places  in  it.  Some  of  them  tired 
of  the  tossing  of  hearts  and  interaction  of 
sympathies  and  some  of  them  badly  wounded 
in  the  battle  of  affections.  Others  have  been 
warned  off  the  perilous  playground.  "Think 
I  'm  goin*  to  make  a  fool  of  meself !  I  Ve  seen 
enough  of  that  at  'ome,  you  can  take  my 
dyin'  oath  on  it."  Yet  one  of  the  perpetual 
problems  of  Guttergarten  is  the  selflessness 
and  abandonment  with  which  the  young 
things  in  their  turn  fling  away  the  frolic  of 
their  wild  free  lives  in  the  interests  of  the 
game. 

198 


The  Game  in  Guttergarten 

Nor  do  the  parents  of  these  willing  victims 
make  many  attempt  at  all  to  interfere  with  this 
wholesale  sacrifice.  The  elder  Lizzie,  with  all 
the  weight  of  woe  and  care,  the  squalor  and 
misery  that  her  venture  in  the  game  has 
brought  upon  her,  will,  I  have  no  doubt  what- 
ever, smile  as  sweetly  as  upon  her  own  wed- 
ding morn  when  Lizzie  junior,  in  a  few  months, 
goes  out  into  the  world  with  the  evil-looking 
impecunious  youth  on  the  ground-floor  of  the 
Gutter  Castle,  who  has  scarcely  done  two 
days*  honest  work  in  his  life,  and  will  cer- 
tainly never  do  another  when  he  has  someone 
else  to  keep  him.  We  have  only  the  old  ex- 
planation of  it.  One  of  the  partners  in  the 
game  must  invariably  be  stricken  with  blind- 
ness. But,  after  all,  what  does  the  game 
mean  to  any  of  us?  And  if  we  could  stop  in 
our  play  for  a  minute,  how  should  we  account 
for  our  behaviour  at  all? 

"We  does  it  for  an  'ome,  Miss,"  Lizzie 
explained  upon  one  occasion,  when  I  had  rea- 
soned with  her  at  some  length  upon  the  ex- 
ceedingly imprudent  future  which  she  had 
planned  so  bravely  for  herself.  "If  I  'ad  er 
199 


Gutter-Babies 

nice  little  place  like  this,  Miss,  I  should  n't 
'ave  no  call  to  git  no  chap  for  meself ,  but  wot 
'ave  such  as  me  ter  look  to,  if  we  don't  make 
a  'ome,  Miss?" 

Lizzie,  of  course,  will  have  it  her  own  way, 
and  presently  when  the  strict  conditions  of 
the  laundry  temporarily  deprive  her  of  her 
livelihood  for  several  months,  the  sufferings 
of  the  little  family  will  be  relieved  by  the 
gradual  disappearance  of  the  home.  And  by 
the  time  that  Lizzie's  baby  is  old  enough  to  be 
left  to  wail  for  her  while  she  returns  to  work, 
there  will  begin  the  laborious  task  of  making 
a  new  home  all  over  again.  And  yet  Lizzie  is 
entirely  responsible  for  the  miserable  cycle 
of  such  a  career.  Her  Sammy  had  to  be  very 
carefully  courted  and  walked  out  before  she 
was  really  quite  sure  of  her  little  home. 
"Ain't  'e  a  flash  feller?"  the  girls  used  to 
whisper  admiringly  over  coyly  tilted  shoul- 
ders, and  Lizzie  was  always  ready  to  answer 
with  grateful  pride,  "Ain't  'e  ever  so!" 

The  affair,  of  course,  was  entirely  practical, 
and  had  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  the  uncer- 
tain and  changeful  traffic  of  human  hearts. 

200 


The  Game  in  Guttergarten 

As  the  time  came  round  for  Lizzie's  annual 
holiday,  and  we  planned  it  out  as  usual  to- 
gether, I  asked  if  perhaps  her  Sammy  might 
not  be  invited  to  run  down  and  see  her  for 
a  day. 

Lizzie  was  full  of  consternation  at  the  sug- 
gestion. "Gawd!  no,  Miss,"  she  interrupted 
hurriedly;  "I  wants  it  to  be  a  'oliday  this 
time.  I  gets  enough  of  'e  at  *ome." 

"Well,  but  I  thought  you  might  be  dull." 

"Me  dull?"  said  Lizzie  cheerfully;  "I 
b'lieve  yer;  why,  I'll  get  orf  all  right;  don't 
you  fret  yer  skin.  Sammy,  'e  says  to  me, 
'Liz,'  'e  says, 'yer '11  'ave  to  keep  yer  glove 
on  that  'and.'" 

"Do  you  love  him,  Lizzie?"  I  once  asked 
in  an  inquisitive  moment. 

"Love  'e,  did  yer  say  it?  What,  me  love 
Sammy?  Oh,  my  Gawd!"  and  Lizzie  sub- 
sided into  helpless  giggles. 

"Oh,  save  us!"  she  remarked  presently,  as 
her  normal  self-control  was  gradually  restored 
to  her;  "I  don't  know  about  love;  me  and 
Sammy  don't  waste  our  time  goin'  in  for  love. 
But  'e's  all  right  you  know,  Miss.  Only  we 

20 1 


Gutter-Babies 

can't  agree.  I  don't  know  'ow  't  is,  but  there 
't  is,  we  can't  agree.  I  'm  sure,  Miss,  'is 
evenin'  out  it's  fair  mis'ry  to  me." 

Oh,  the  mysterious  subtlety  of  the  sacred 
game! 

And  it  is  curious  to  think  how  the  whole  of 
this  intricate  Gutter-life,  with  its  thousands 
of  little  homes,  its  countless  Sammys,  and 
still  more  numerous  shrewd  and  callous 
Lizzies,  with  all  its  varied  industries  and  mul- 
tiform contrivances,  with  all  its  poverty  and 
needless  sorrow,  is  really  due  to  the  caprice 
and  mischief  of  the  one  woman  who  loves  one 
man,  and  the  one  man  who  wants  many 
women. 

I  do  not  know  that  Lizzie  ever  really  found 
it  any  easier  to  agree  with  her  self-selected 
partner.  Her  home  life  was  punctuated  by 
sudden  storms  and  hideous  rows.  She  got 
him  three  months  once,  and  several  times 
sought  the  protection  of  the  law  against  him. 
She  summoned  him  for  black  eyes  and  she 
cut  him  off  his  pocket-money  from  time  to 
time,  but  in  the  end  she  always  forgave  him. 
He  was  hers,  and  she  would  do  her  best  for 

202 


We  can't  agree 


The  Game  in  Guttergarten 

him  and  keep  him  as  nice  as  she  could,  until 
death  should  mercifully  intervene,  and  part 
them  at  last.  And  then  she  would  be  a  widow 
and  widows  have  many  privileges  in  Gutter- 
garten. She  would  be  able  to  live  substantially 
on  charity,  and  wear  "deeps,"  and  pose  as 
one  of  the  bereaved  army  among  the  Gutter- 
dwellers.  Her  stormy  past  would  be  lost  in 
oblivion,  and  no  one  would  remember  how 
often  in  the  home  of  Lizzie  there  were  words. 
For  in  Guttergarten  we  bury  our  dead,  and 
talk  only  of  the  funeral. 

Once  I  asked  Lizzie  how  people  managed 
the  tremendous  business  of  "getting  off." 

"Gawd,  Miss,  you  are  a  comic!"  said 
Lizzie.  "Some  girls  'as  different  ways  to 
others,  Miss;  it's  a  secret,  Miss;  there's  some 
as  can,  and  some  as  can't." 

But  after  a  little  more  persuasion  Lizzie 
consented  to  tell  me  about  her  first  experience 
in  the  game. 

"  I  was  waitin'  for  a  'bus  and  watchin*  some 
feller,  when  up  'e  comes.  '  'Scuse  me,'  says  'e, 
'but  I  think  as  I  knows  you,  Miss.'  'Ho,  no,' 
says  I;  'then  you  don't.'  'Where  do  you 

203 


Gutter-Babies 

live?'  says  'e.  'Shepherd's  Bush,'  says  I. 
'Whereabouts?'  says  'e.  'Well,  I  don't  know 
as  I  cares  to  tell  you  that,'  says  I,  'you  got 
enough  to  go  on  with.'  And  'e  ups  on  the  'bus, 
and  pays  me  fare  'ome  and  all.  When  I  gets 
down,  'e  says,  '  I  '11  meet  yer  same  place  ter- 
morrer.'  'Well,'  says  I,  'and  if  yer  do,  'ow 
shall  I  know  yer? '  '  Why,  I  '11  'ave  a  straw  'at 
on/  says  'e.  But  when  I  gets  there  all  the 
fellers  'ad  straw  'ats  on." 

Lizzie  chuckled  cunningly  over  the  lost 
innocence  of  her  first  "go  off,"  and  then  has- 
tened to  apologise  profusely.  "Gawd,  Miss, 
there's  a  dirty  laugh,"  she  said. 

But  Lizzie  was  not  quite  orthodox  always 
in  her  methods,  and  in  the  matter  of  Sammy's 
cultivation  she  did  not  play  fair  at  all,  ac- 
cording to  the  etiquette  of  the  absurd  game. 
Sammy's  pretty  little  sister  Topsy  had  once 
been  Lizzie's  dearest  pal.  There  was  nothing 
within  those  two  little  feminine  hearts  which 
was  not  generously  shared  by  each.  They 
worked  side  by  side,  and  they  went  out  and 
returned  together.  They  took  the  same 
money,  and  they  squandered  it  in  exactly  the 

204 


The  Game  in  Guttergarten 

same  ways,  and  even  their  Sunday  hats  and 
their  holiday  dresses  were  counterparts  of 
each  other.  And  so  the  two  little  women, 
grinding  away  together,  formed  their  charac- 
ters carelessly  upon  the  same  easily  reached 
model.  But  in  the  end  the  shock  of  action  in 
the  game  shaped  the  destiny  of  each.  It  is 
forbidden  in  Guttergarten  even  to  notice  the 
existence  of  the  brother  of  a  pal,  and  Lizzie 
did  this  thing.  She  accepted  the  generous 
hospitality  of  Topsy's  invitations,  and  at  the 
same  time  she  turned  her  eyes  in  the  direction 
of  Sammy.  There  was  an  abrupt  termination 
to  the  long  sweet  friendship  of  the  two  girls. 
They  met  and  did  not  speak;  they  kept  up  a 
jealous  war  in  the  home  of  Topsy's  mother, 
where  Lizzie  must  still  be  a  frequent  guest. 
No  friendly  interference  could  heal  that  in- 
famous wound,  inflicted  upon  Topsy's  heart 
by  the  familiar  hand  of  a  pal.  It  was  not 
until  long  afterwards,  in  the  doubtful  atmos- 
phere of  Lizzie's  new  home,  when  a  little 
beetroot-coloured  scrap  of  screaming  human- 
ity was  placed  in  Topsy's  empty  arms,  that 
the  quarrel  was  made  up,  and  she  answered 

205 


Gutter-Babies 

the  invitation  to  be  "gawdmother"  by  kiss- 
ing the  white  face  on  the  pillow. 

In  the  end  we  all  give  the  same  account  of 
ourselves,  and  the  Gutter-baby  is  still  the 
excuse  for  the  game. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

The  Prisoner  of  Guttergarten 

GUTTERGARTEN  is  quite  as  diffi- 
cult to  locate  as  the  ancient  garden 
of  the  world's  myth.  It  is  not  con- 
venient to  draw  a  line  round  the  beloved 
kingdom,  or  in  any  way  possible  to  define 
accurately  the  wide  boundaries  of  the  Gutter- 
dwellers'  rapidly  propagating  colonies.  We 
cannot  set  our  faces  deliberately  in  any 
particular  direction  to  seek  Guttergarten. 
Perhaps  naturally  in  such  a  quest  our  hearts 
would  fly  eastward  into  the  golden  home  of 
promise  and  romance,  but  even  then  the 
Guttergarten  of  the  west  would  lie  behind 
us,  rich  in  abundant  treasure,  and  with  its 
wealth  of  harvest  store.  For  it  is  impossible 
to  persevere  very  long  upon  any  given  line  of 
progress  without  tumbling  presently  head- 
long into  Guttergarten,  and  it  is  as  profoundly 
true  of  Guttergarten,  as  of  any  other  divinely 
appropriated  country,  that  the  sun  never 
sets  upon  the  home  of  the  Gutter-dwellers. 

207 


Gutter-Babies 

But  in  spite  of  this,  the  captive  of  Gutter- 
garten  is  an  intensely  real  and  substantial 
person,  fretting  bitterly  within  the  prison- 
house  of  human  experience,  and  dreaming 
only  in  restless  delight  of  the  land  of  liberty 
and  the  song  of  the  free.  There  is  a  prohibi- 
tion and  a  limit  even  in  Guttergarten.  Every 
day  the  Gutter-babies  are  rushing  in  ecstatic 
haste  towards  the  farthest  borderland.  They 
know  that  infinity  is  not  theirs,  that  they  are 
the  slaves  of  the  delusive  creatures,  time  and 
space  and  matter.  The  wild  glad  vision  of  a 
Gutter-baby's  eyes  is  beyond  the  emptiness 
of  human  reach,  somewhere  safe  among  the 
real  things,  perhaps  behind  the  glittering 
stars  and  the  white  circle  of  the  silent  moon. 
But  their  little  lives  must  run  out  in  experi- 
ence to  the  very  edge  of  fact.  They  must 
sound  the  depths  and  explore  the  dimensions 
before  they  settle  down  into  the  heart  of 
Guttergarten  to  divine  discontent  or  the 
tears  of  satisfaction. 

The  little  Gutter-babies  of  the  Sunday 
School  were  going  out  two  hundred  strong 
for  their  annual  summer  tea-picnic  in  the 

208 


The  Prisoner  of  Guttergarten 

cricket-field  two  miles  out  of  Guttergarten. 
"All  the  nice  gals  love  a  sailor,"  they  sang 
as  they  marched  cheerfully  along,  with  the 
afternoon  sun  in  their  eyes  and  the  dust  of 
Guttergarten  rising  before  them.  Some  of 
them  were  crying,  for  to  leave  Guttergarten 
for  a  few  hours  even  is  a  grievous  thing.  No- 
body had  any  idea  what  might  be  happening 
while  they  were  away.  There  might  be  a  big 
lock-up,  or  a  fight,  or  a  fire  in  the  Gutter 
Castle.  Besides,  everybody's  mother  was  in 
Guttergarten,  and  even  Gutter-babies  miss 
their  mothers.  But  most  of  them  were  bent 
on  pleasure,  and  on  the  whole  it  was  a  merry 
little  company  that  followed  the  Gutter 
Parson  out  of  Guttergarten  along  the  dusty 
roads,  and  the  music  of  their  happy  little 
voices  brought  many  a  Gutter-mother  to  her 
window,  full  of  maternal  pride  and  boastful 
interest. 

"There's  my  little  Bertie!" 

"'Ere  comes  my  boy;  don't  'e  look  all 
right?  You  would  n't  think  I  made  them  little 
breeches  out  of  'is  Daddy's  coat,  would  you?  " 

There  were  a  few  quarrels  on  the  road,  of 
209 


Gutter-Babies 

course.  Gutter-babies  cannot  be  expected  to 
walk  all  the  way  out  of  Guttergarten  without 
quarrelling  with  each  other; 

From  the  remote  end  of  the  irregular  and 
straggling  little  cavalcade  a  pleading  voice 
was  calling  "  Teacher! "  shrill  and  persistently 
and  a  small  hand  was  waggling  in  the  air  to 
attract  attention. 

There  is  not  much  time  or  opportunity  for 
personal  matters  with  the  Gutter-babies,  or 
serious  consideration  of  the  problems  of  indi- 
viduality during  a  march.  There  are  so  many 
dangers  en  route,  so  many  little  wild  spirits 
to  control  and  so  many  orders  to  put  into 
action.  The  leaders  have  to  be  told  not  to  run 
so  fast,  and  the  rear  has  to  be  told  not  to 
drag  so  much,  and  the  middle  contingent  has 
to  be  told  not  to  bulge  all  the  way  across  the 
road.  Then  there  are  so  many  other  little 
details  to  attend  to.  One  Gutter-baby  wants 
his  sash  tied  up,  and  someone  else  has  trod- 
den all  the  way  up  it  before  anything  can  be 
done  for  him.  "Me  mother  bought  it  this 
mornin*.  'Er  won't  'arf  give  me  a  'idin*  when 
I  gets  'ome!" 

210 


The  Prisoner  of  Guttergarten 

"Well,  yer  can't  spex  to  be  out  all  day 
without  gettin*  a  'idin'  after  it,"  says  Special 
Johnny  scornfully.  "Don't  yer  know  that 
not  an  afternoon  passes  without  yer  'as  a  sin 
on  yer  soul?" 

Then  there  are  Gutter-babies  who  have  to 
be  carried  because  they  are  not  used  to  walk- 
ing. "Me  mother  says  I  can't  walk  so  far 
'cos  she  don't  'old  with  givin'  me  the  streets." 

And  then  there  are  the  others,  the  very 
worst  Gutter-babies  of  all,  who  trip  over  the 
kerb-stones  and  cut  their  knees.  Oh,  what  a 
noise  they  make,  and  how  tenderly  one  has 
to  nurse  the  wounded  limb  while  the  other 
little  travellers  are  toiling  on  and  gradually 
disappearing  in  the  distance,  quickly  hid- 
den from  sight  in  the  cloud  of  dust  kicked 
up  by  the  march  of  many  little  swinging 
feet.  Then  there  is  the  sudden  recovery,  and 
the  breathless  run  to  overtake  them  with  the 
Gutter-baby  that  was  left  behind  clinging  to 
Teacher's  skirts. 

And  all  the  while  at  the  end  of  that  moving 
line,  the  little  appealing  hand  is  wriggling 
quietly  backwards  and  forwards  in  the  air. 

211 


Gutter-Babies 

"Please,  Julie  Jones,  she  says  she  don't  like 
my  'at,  Teacher!"  A  message  has  to  be  sent 
all  the  way  up  the  line  until  the  offender, 
Julie  Jones,  has  been  discovered  and  brought 
unwillingly  to  judgment.  "I  never!"  says 
the  unblushing  Julie;  "leastways  only  once 
I  did,  but  Rosie  Smith  says  to  me,  '  I  'd  rather 
wear  a  man's  bowler  'at,  Teacher/ ' 

Then  Rosie  Smith  must  be  interviewed. 
"Please,  Teacher,  I  was  nearly  there,"  cries 
Rosie,  whose  eyes  had  already  sighted  the 
promised  land  of  the  cricket- fie  Id. 

"But  I  hear  you  have  been  very  rude, 
Rosie.  I  am  very  surprised  that  you  object 
to  this  little  girl's  hat." 

Rosie's  eyes  are  growing  round  and  blue, 
for  we  are  getting  on  to  her  favourite  subject 
—  the  dressing-up  and  the  arraying  of  the 
outer  little  Gutter-baby. 

"Please,  Teacher,  I've  got  two  silk  dresses 
at  'ome." 

But  at  last  we  have  reached  the  end  of  the 
journey.  Soon,  the  long  and  toilsome  march 
will  be  quite  forgotten,  and  already  the 
perils  of  the  road  are  over,  for  the  two  hun- 

212 


The  Prisoner  of  Guttergarten 

dred  little  Gutter-babies  are  filing  through 
the  open  gate  of  the  promised  land  into  the 
green  and  sunny  pastures  of  the  unknown. 
Even  the  guardian  angels  of  these  little  wild 
people  must  have  been  glad  to  drop  exhausted 
for  a  few  minutes'  respite  from  anxiety,  after 
the  strain  of  that  colossal  enterprise  which 
we  had  thrust  upon  them.  For  under  no  mere 
human  escort  can  two  hundred  Gutter- 
babies  be  separated  from  Guttergarten  and 
their  mothers  without  awful  disaster. 

There  is  a  wide  and  sunlit  spread  of  green 
field  before  us,  with  a  delightful  little  range 
of  hills  on  one  side  for  Gutter-babies  to  run 
up  and  down,  and  a  deeply  riven  ditch,  with 
a  board  thrown  across  it  invitingly.  There  is 
also  a  wild  enemy  in  possession  in  the  shape 
of  a  big  horse  grazing  quietly  in  the  distance. 
But  all  these  local  interests  scarcely  attract 
the  wondering  attention  of  a  single  Gutter- 
baby  yet.  What  has  happened  to  the  little 
wild  people? 

They  are  all  hurrying  as  fast  as  possible  to 
the  very  farthest  boundary  of  this  new  play- 
ground. They  are  seeking  out  the  limit  of 

213 


Gutter-Babies 

their  new  situation.  For  they  know  that  they 
are  not  really  in  the  Gutter-babies'  Heaven. 
They  have  walked  all  the  way  out  of  Gutter- 
garten  and  found  a  new  country,  but  they 
have  brought  with  them  the  atmosphere  of 
the  home  of  the  Gutter-dwellers.  All  round 
them  the  green  things  of  the  earth  are  calling 
to  their  little  singing  hearts,  but  they  know 
that,  in  spite  of  the  sunshine  and  the  soft 
tender  grass  and  the  fresh  summer  wind  and 
the  bright  sky,  they  are  still  in  prison.  Be- 
yond the  tufted  ridge  of  brown  hedge  and 
on  the  other  side  of  the  yawning  ditch  is  the 
land  of  liberty  —  the  kingdom  of  the  free. 
And  they  cannot  rest  in  their  prison  until 
they  have  toured  solemnly  round  the  whole 
circle  of  limitation  and  assured  themselves 
that  there  is  no  possibility  of  escape.  Pres- 
ently they  will  come  back  to  us  full  of  play 
and  enthusiasm,  to  spend  the  rest  of  the  after- 
noon making  the  best  of  their  captivity,  with 
the  struggling  desire  of  a  Gutter-baby's  heart 
pleading  still  through  the  laughter  of  wide, 
observant  eyes.  Even  those  eccentric  games 
with  which  they  so  successfully  entertain  each 

214 


The  Prisoner  of  Guttergarten 

other  illustrate  the  dominant  idea  in  the 
little  players'  minds. 

"  Sally  go  round  the  sun, 
Sally  go  round  the  moon, 
Sally  go  round  the  chimney-pot, 
On  a  Sunday  afternoon.   Ho! " 

At  the  last  note  of  the  song  every  Gutter- 
baby  has  thrown  one  foot  into  the  air,  as  if  to 
follow  the  precarious  flight  of  Sally  in  her 
three  magnificent  ventures  beyond  the  limit 
of  a  Gutter-baby's  experience,  into  that 
kingdom  of  the  heights  where  the  sun  and 
the  moon  and  the  chimney-pot  hold  their 
court.  A  sudden  flop  upon  the  green  grass, 
and  each  Gutter-baby  has  come  abruptly 
back  to  earth  with  the  wisdom  that  only  fail- 
ure and  the  discovery  of  the  limit  canj:each 
the  prisoner  of  humanity.  There  is  no  way 
out  of  Guttergarten. 

In  a  few  years,  when  all  these  little  wild 
people  have  grown  long  in  limb  and  wise  in 
head,  and  have  lost  a  great  many  of  their 
dreams  and  much  of  their  enthusiasm  in  the 
ecstatic  chase  of  Sally  towards  the  land  of 
smoke  and  fire,  and  have  learnt  perhaps  other 
215 


Gutter-Babies 

and  less  elevating  ways  of  spending  Sunday 
afternoons,  we  shall  still  find  them  all  safe 
in  the  firm,  unchanging  arms  of  Guttergarten, 
training  up  their  own  new  Gutter- babies  in  the 
old  prison  habits  and  the  rigorous  discipline  of 
the  eternal  limit. 

There  was  a  bright  little  Gutter-baby  once, 
of  my  acquaintance,  who  won  a  scholarship 
for  deep  learning  in  the  local  school,  and  was 
consequently  transferred  with  every  honour 
to  a  Higher  Grade  Academy,  where  his  splen- 
did abilities  might  be  encouraged  and  devel- 
oped to  more  advantage. 

Day  after  day,  the  little  fellow  trudged, 
half-fed  and  with  neatly  patched  garments, 
to  the  haunts  of  civilization  and  culture.  He 
was  the  pride  and  boast  of  his  family  circle, 
who  made  the  most  heroic  sacrifices  to  force 
away  from  this  ambitious  and  privileged 
Gutter-baby  the  threatening  line  of  imprison- 
ing limit.  While  his  father  was  selling  rabbits, 
"Cheap  and  boiled!"  in  the  Gutter-market, 
the  hungry  little  student  sat  at  his  desk  and 
stormed  the  treasure-land  of  science. 

There  were  lots  of  things  that  Willie  must 
216 


The  Prisoner  of  Guttergarten 

have,  which  he  had  never  thought  of  wanting 
before,  that  he  might  not  be  discredited 
among  his  colleagues.  But  there  was  one 
thing  he  could  never  have,  that  marked  the 
line  of  difference  plainly  between  the  scholar- 
ship-boy and  the  children  of  those  other 
parents  who  kept  big  shops  beyond  the  reach 
of  the  Gutter-dwellers,  and  which  branded 
him  for  ever  as  the  slave  of  Guttergarten. 

"Willie,"  asked  one  of  the  visiting  in- 
spectors upon  one  occasion,  "will  you  tell  me 
why  you  are  the  only  boy  in  the  school  who 
does  not  wear  a  collar?" 

Willie  was  overcome  with  confusion  imme- 
diately, but  the  Gutter-baby  knew  that  at 
last  he  had  reached  the  limit. 

"Please,"  he  answered  bravely,  "Father 
don't  like  I  to  wear  one.  'E  says't  ain't  right 
for  such  as  we  be."  And  then  the  glorious 
pride  of  the  Gutter-baby  in  his  splendid  herit- 
age of  captivity  came  suddenly  to  the  rescue, 
and  he  explained  boastfully,  "We're  a  coster 
fam'ly,  Sir."  No,  there  is  no  way  out  of  Gut- 
tergarten for  any  of  us. 

I  am  only  a  stranger  and  an  outsider  here, 
217 


Gutter-Babies 

trained  at  last  by  the  Gutter-babies'  careful 
education  to  make  fewer  mistakes,  perhaps, 
than  in  the  years  that  have  gone,  and  much 
improved,  without  doubt,  by  the  untiring 
observation  of  the  ways  and  habits  of  the 
Gutter-dwellers,  but  still  only  a  heathen  and 
a  foreigner,  whom  they  have  most  graciously 
entertained  in  their  midst.  And  yet  I,  too, 
am  the  Prisoner  of  Guttergarten.  Sometimes 
for  a  little  time  it  seems  as  if  I  might  drop 
out  of  the  Gutter-heart  into  the  life  of  things 
beyond  the  limit,  where  the  world  is  not  a 
garden  and  the  mind  of  man  is  not  "special." 
But  it  cannot  be.  A  thousand  eagerly  cling- 
ing memories  are  dragging  me  back  into  the 
narrow  compass  of  a  Gutter-home.  The 
voices  of  the  Gutter-babies  are  calling,  and  at 
once  the  greedy  beckoning  of  the  far-off  vision 
has  lost  its  charm ;  the  prison  walls  close  round 
me  again,  and  for  ever  I  am  fast  in  Gutter- 
garten. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

The  Starver 

BEHIND  the  top  windows  of  the  Gut- 
ter Castle  the  wreck  of  the  elder 
Lizzie's  little  home  had  begun. 

"Oh,  my  Gordon!"  shrieked  Johnny  sud- 
denly; "'ere,  Miss,  come  and  look  at  this 
horful  show  up!" 

The  elder  Lizzie  was  being  unceremoni- 
ously dragged  out  of  the  "  Blue  Star,"  through 
a  gaping  and  astonished  crowd. 

"Yer  bleedin*  Starver!"  she  defended  her- 
self. "You  ought  to  'ave  a  wife,  you  ought. 
'Oos  money  do  I  treat  meself  with?  'Oo  keeps 
your  'ome  for  you?  Tell  me  that,  I  say,  yer 
bleedin'  Starver!" 

He  did  not  tell  her,  but  he  hit  her  mouth  to 
stop  the  flow  of  abuse  and  she  gave  him  a 
black  eye. 

And  that  was  the  beginning  of  the  collapse 
of  the  elder  Lizzie's  patience.  For  this  crisis 
she  had  worked  so  bravely  day  and  night  at 

219 


Gutter-Babies 

the  laundry,  and  dragged  the  children's  earn- 
ings from  them  to  keep  his  home  safe,  while 
he  hung  about  Guttergarten  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets  and  a  pipe  in  his  mouth.  She 
had  often  wondered  how  he  had  got  the  money 
for  his  tobacco.  It  did  not  come  from  her  — 
not  much! 

As  she  hurried  homewards  now,  with  her 
little  ones  clinging  to  her  skirt  in  frightened 
sympathy,  the  heart  of  the  elder  Lizzie  was 
filled  with  bitterness  and  hatred.  She  sat 
down  in  the  Grandmother's  empty  chair, 
struggling  to  command  her  dizzy  senses  and 
wiping  the  blood  from  her  wounded  face.  He 
was  her  man,  and  she  had  kept  him  all  these 
years;  she  did  not  turn  against  him  because 
he  had  hit  her;  she  liked  a  man  of  spirit;  but 
now  he  had  shown  he  was  a  man,  he  should 
keep  himself. 

Of  course  she  knew  he  had  a  fancy  for  her 
not  to  gossip  in  the  "  Blue  Star"  with  Topsy's 
mother,  and  he  had  said  if  he  caught  them  at 
it,  he  would  knock  their  two  heads  together 
until  he  had  split  every  ounce  of  brain  in  each 
of  them. 

220 


Struggling  to  command  her  dizzy  senses 


The  Starver 

It  was  her  being  out  at  tea-time  that  had 
done  it.  A  man  wants  his  tea  when  he  comes 
in,  and  it  ought  to  be  ready  for  him  even  if  he 
has  only  been  walking  round  the  houses  with 
his  pipe,  while  Mother  has  been  sweated  out 
at  the  wash-house  all  the  afternoon.  But  this 
was  the  last  of  it.  He  had  gone  out;  when  he 
came  back  he  should  have  a  surprise.  She 
remembered  with  a  mocking  smile  that  it  was 
his  birthday  on  Monday.  Well,  she  did  not 
suppose  she  would  ever  remember  his  birth- 
day again,  but  this  once  she  would  give  him 
another  surprise  to  mark  the  day.  She  would 
send  him  a  summons  for  his  birthday.  But 
there  was  a  great  deal  to  do.  It  was  no  time 
for  sitting  in  the  Grandmother's  chair  and 
nursing  her  troubles.  The  children  must  help 
her.  She  flung  up  the  window  and  shouted  for 
Teddy. 

"Come  in  at  once,  yer  wicked  boy,  or  I'll 
knock  yer  'ead  off;  yer  won't  want  to  run  the 
streets  to-morrow,  I  s'pose,  when  yerVe  got 
no  'ome!" 

And  then  began  the  destruction  of  the 
elder  Lizzie's  home.  There  was  not  a  great 

221 


Gutter-Babies 

deal  of  it  to  break  up,  much  less  than  there 
used  to  be. 

It  had  been  a  hard  winter,  very  hard,  in- 
deed, inside  the  Gutter  Castle.  They  made 
you  pay  your  rent  there,  and  if  there  was  no 
money  coming,  you  had  to  make  it  on  the 
home.  Most  of  the  bits  went  to  the  pawn- 
shop on  a  borrowed  barrow  now,  and  the  rest 
was  soon  disposed  of  in  other  ways. 

Johnny  and  Teddy  rather  enjoyed  the  pro- 
ceedings; every  Gutter-baby  loves  moving- 
day,  and  neither  of  them  had  the  least  idea 
that  they  were  taking  part  in  the  tragedy  of 
the  elder  Lizzie. 

At  last  everything  was  done.  The  little 
home  behind  the  top  windows  of  the  Gutter 
Castle  had  been  utterly  devastated.  The  cold 
bare  rooms,  with  their  blackened  ceilings  and 
untidy  walls,  were  forlornly  suggestive  of 
desertion.  They  might  have  said  many  things 
to  the  wild  misery  of  Lizzie's  heart,  if  she  had 
cared.  In  that  corner  she  had  rocked  her  first 
baby  and  talked  of  love.  Here  she  had 
washed  and  mended  and  scolded  and  suffered 
for  the  twenty  years  of  her  married  life. 
222 


The  Starver 

Storms  had  swept  over  the  little  home  she 
had  defended  so  bravely,  but  they  had  passed 
as  suddenly  as  they  came.  But  now  the  sun 
would  shine  no  more  there. 

This  was  the  tragedy  of  Lizzie,  that  she 
had  lost  her  home.  And  now  she  must  go 
before  he  came  back.  He  would  kill  her  if  he 
found  her  there,  and  she  must  get  her  sum- 
mons out  first.  Down  the  stairs  she  came,  and 
the  children  must  not  follow. 

"I'm  goin'  away  to  the  seaside,"  she  told 
them. 

She  had  lied  to  her  own  Gutter-babies. 

"  Could  she  be  a  woman?  "  Johnny  sneered, 
when  it  was  all  over. 

Lizzie  went  out  from  the  Gutter  Castle, 
but  she  did  not  go  far.  She  must  be  where 
she  could  carry  out  her  poor  little  vicious 
plans.  She  must  be,  too,  where  she  could  see 
her  own  little  ones  crying  for  bread  and  run- 
ning the  streets  barefoot. 

The  elder  Lizzie  must  be  mad ! 

She  went  to  a  furnished  room  in  the  next 
street  and  hid  herself  there.  The  family  of 
the  elder  Lizzie  did  not  suffer  any  serious 

223 


Gutter-Babies 

privation,  after  all.  Perhaps  she  had  known 
they  would  be  all  right.  Topsy's  mother  took 
in  the  little  boys  and  the  new  baby  and 
Lizzie  went  to  the  Free  Shelter  for  a  night  or 
two  till  things  came  straight  again.  Billy 
found  a  shake-down  for  himself  with  a  pal,  and 
Teddy  persuaded  Johnny  to  befriend  him. 

Only  the  Starver  sat  alone  among  the 
shadows  in  his  empty  home  and  wondered 
what  the  devil  was  the  matter. 

Presently  he,  too,  went  out  to  find  his  mates 
in  the  "Blue  Star." 

The  birthday  came  and  Lizzie  got  her  sum- 
mons out,  but  it  did  not  surprise  the  Starver. 

Nobody  could  find  the  Starver;  he  had  dis- 
appeared; the  bare  rooms  in  the  top  of  the 
Gutter  Castle  were  as  empty  as  when  the 
elder  Lizzie  had  left  them.  Everybody 
wanted  to  know  what  the  devil  had  become 
of  the  Starver.  But  only  the  devil  knew. 

At  last  someone  volunteered  to  tell  Lizzie 
of  the  Starver's  disappearance.  Lizzie  was 
disappointed.  After  all,  her  little  birthday 
surprise  had  been  a  failure.  But  she  would 
find  him,  she  would  hunt  him  to  the  end  of 

224 


The  Starver 

the  earth,  she  would  drag  the  canals  and  dive 
into  the  deep  places  of  Guttergarten  for  the 
missing  body  of  the  Starver. 

But  she  knew  where  he  was.  He  had  got 
pinched  on  Saturday  night  in  his  cups,  and 
this  time  there  had  been  no  elder  Lizzie  to 
bail  him  out.  But  upon  investigation  Lizzie's 
theory  collapsed.  The  Starver  was  not  in  the 
lock-up. 

The  elder  Lizzie  went  on  going  to  the  laun- 
dry and  paying  for  her  furnished  room,  while 
other  people  minded  the  Starver's  children 
for  her,  and  we  all  lived  breathlessly  under 
the  shadow  of  this  tremendous  mystery.  But 
at  last  the  end  came. 

It  was  the  Saturday  after  the  disappear- 
ance of  the  Starver.  He  had  been  away  a 
week,  when  Johnny  bounced  in  in  a  state  of 
wild  excitement. 

" I 've  seed  'im! "  he  screamed.  " I'll  take 
me  dyin'  oath  on  it!" 

The  Starver  had  come  home  at  last.  He 
carried  a  bag  of  tools  with  him,  and  he  was 
up  there  in  the  Gutter  Castle,  collecting  his 
scattered  family.  Lizzie  stood  out  in  Gutter- 

225 


Gutter-Babies 

garten  and  watched  the  gathering  of  the 
home  circle.  Could  the  Starver  really  have 
found  work?  Of  course  she  had  never  meant 
to  take  the  matter  to  court.  It  was  only  her 
little  birthday  surprise  for  him.  Would  he 
ask  her  to  come  back?  She  wondered!  She 
knew  what  a  lot  of  washing  there  must  be  by 
this  time.  Why,  his  poor  socks  must  be  fair 
walked  through,  if  he  had  been  on  tramp. 
Presently  the  window  flew  up,  and  the 
Starver  looked  out.  He  seemed  to  look  very 
peeky,  she  thought,  but  there!  work  had 
never  agreed  with  him. 

"Liz,"  he  said,  "ain't  yer  comin'  up?" 
He  must  be  clean  daft  to  think  she  would 
go  back  to  him  like  that.  If  he  went  down  on 
his  hands  and  knees  he  could  n't  expect  more. 
"Tom,"  she  said,  "I  never  meant  to  take 
that  to  court,  but  you  Ve  seen  the  last  of  me. 
Mind  you're  good  to  the  kids,  Tom,  when 
I  'm  gone,  and  don't  forget  to  give  Nannie  'er 
cough  mixture.  Maybe  you  '11  find  me  in  the 
canal,  but  there's  plenty  of  chaps  'ud  be  glad 
to  'ave  me  work  for  'em  as  I  Ve  worked  for 
you,  and  the  children  knows  as  'ow  I  'ave." 

226 


The  Starver 

The  Starver's  face,  as  it  hung  out  of  the 
window,  became  troubled. 

"Ain't  yer  comin'  up,  Liz?'  he  persisted 
gently. 

"Me  comin'  up,  Tom?  —  not  me.  I  can't 
do  it  no  more,  Tom;  I'm  fair  broke,  I  am, 
Tom.  If  yer  went  down  on  yer  bended  knees 
yer  could  n't  ask  no  more!" 

For  the  whole  afternoon  it  seemed  as  if  this 
dialogue  would  continue.  But  I  was  not 
anxious  about  Lizzie.  I  knew  that  curiosity 
and  wounded  pride  would  certainly  carry  the 
day,  and  land  her  safely  once  again  in  the 
bosom  of  her  abandoned  family. 

That  the  Starver  should  have  found  work 
after  all  these  years  was  an  unfathomable 
mystery;  that  the  Starver  should  have  be- 
come independent  was  the  sting  of  cruelty. 

"Ain't  yer  comin'  up,  Liz?"  went  on  the 
gruff  voice  kindly. 

"  Wot's  'ome  without  a  mother?  "  suggested 
Johnny  at  her  elbow. 

"Yer  don't  want  yer  wife  now  yer  can 
keep  yerself,  I  s'pose?  'Ow  did  yer  find 
work?" 

227 


Gutter-Babies 

"I  ain't  found  no  work,  Liz!  'Oo  says  I 
got  any  work?" 

"Why,  wot  you  got  in  yer  bloody  bag, 
then?  Ain't  they  tools  in  there?" 

"They  ain't  no  tools,  Liz.  I  've  been  down 
in  the  country,  along  of  my  mother,  wot  I 
ain't  seen  this  ten  year.  Tramped  it  all  the 
way,  I  did,  an'  brought  back  a  few  apples  for 
the  kids.  Ain't  yer  comin*  up,  Liz?" 

The  elder  Lizzie  mounted  the  stairs  of  the 
Gutter  Castle  with  a  bursting  heart  and 
brimming  eyes. 

"I've  got  me  week's  money  for  the  dinner 
to-morrer,  Tom,"  she  said. 

And  then  began  the  laborious  collection  of 
the  new  home  of  the  Lizzies. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

The  Frown  of  Guttergarten 

IN  the  whole  world  there  is  nowhere  such 
an  oppression  and  desperation  of  lone- 
liness as  within  that  atmosphere  of 
human  estrangement  which  is  known  behind 
the  cold  shoulder  of  Guttergarten.  In  spite 
of  the  easy  familiarity  and  gay  confidence 
of  Gutter-correspondence,  scarred  memory 
holds  still  the  sting  and  torture  of  that  first 
step  into  the  beloved  kingdom  under  the 
cruel  stare  of  hostility  and  the  contemptuous 
laugh  of  the  surprised  enemy. 

None  of  us  who  can  remember  our  initia- 
tion will  ever  quite  forget  the  horror  of  that 
first  night,  when,  left  to  ourselves  at  last, 
with  the  Gutter-world  shut  off  from  us  by 
curtained  windows  and  locked  doors  and  the 
kind  swift  touch  of  the  Gutter-night,  through 
which  reached  us  only  at  intervals  the  drunk- 
ard's reeling  song  or  the  shrill  scream  of  a 
woman,  we  nursed  sadly  the  failure  and  col- 

229 


Gutter-Babies 

lapse  of  the  heroic  venture  and  packed  our 
boxes  resolutely  for  that  meditated  flight  to 
which  the  morning  never  tempted  us. 

It  is  true  that  the  horror  of  this  great  lone- 
liness gradually  passed  from  us,  as  the  Gutter 
held  out  its  hand  to  us  in  hot,  clinging  grip  of 
friendship  from  which  we  were  never  more 
to  be  set  free. 

But  the  warning  memory  of  the  first  cold 
frown  must  often  return  as  we  are  challenged 
daily  by  the  variable  moods  and  fickle  affec- 
tions of  Guttergarten. 

Here  in  my  own  Gutter-home,  in  the  very 
heart  of  familiar  associations,  I  have  been  so 
suddenly  and  bitterly  alone! 

Where  the  walls  are  hung  with  cheap  and 
unflattering  representations  of  friends  among 
the  Gutter-dwellers,  where  every  nook  and 
corner  holds  a  relic  and  memento  of  some 
tremendous  event,  marked  by  an  offering 
from  Gutter-hands,  —  an  egg-cup  from  Hast- 
ings to  celebrate  the  return  of  Blanchie  in 
triumph  from  her  first  tour,  a  gaudy  china 
boot  from  my  Johnny,  in  which  he  had  pa- 
tiently tended  a  sickly  fern  since  my  last 

230 


The  Frown  of  Guttergarten 

birthday,  and  countless  other  such  treasures 
of  abundant  inspiration  and  suggestion. 

These  dumb  mouths  were  eloquent  when 
the  last  visitor's  hobnailed  boots  had  clat- 
tered safely  away  down  the  little  stairs,  and 
yet  I  have  been  lonely  and  shall,  I  expect, 
often  be  so  again,  even  here. 

For  I  suppose  the  Gutter  will  never  quite 
forget,  or  allow  us  entirely  to  ignore  the  fact, 
that  we  were  born  into  a  world  outside  Gut- 
tergarten, and  can  never  really  share  fully 
the  sweet  communion  of  the  children  of  the 
Kingdom. 

Last  Sunday  afternoon  this  strange  atmo- 
sphere of  loneliness  struck  at  me  with  all  the 
force  and  insolence  of  an  unanticipated  blow, 
as  I  came  in  rather  later  than  usual,  to  find 
my  little  sitting-room  packed  full  to  over- 
flowing with  big  factory  girls  and  little 
Gutter-babies  all  mixed  up  together  and  play- 
ing furiously  at  Ludo.  It  was  my  table  at 
which  they  sat,  but  there  was  no  room  for  me. 
No  one  stopped  playing  to  greet  me  and  no 
one  had  any  time  to  spare  for  me.  A  dull  feel- 
ing of  resentment  rose  within  me  which  a 

231 


Gutter-Babies 

sudden'wisdom  and  a  flash  of  warning  memory 
urged  me  to  control,  and  I  crept  out  again 
into  Guttergarten,  pushed  away  by  the 
crowded  loneliness  of  my  own  hospitality. 
Presently,  I  knew,  they  would  all  get  tired  of 
each  other,  those  self-centred  guests  of  mine 
who  had  no  thought  to  spare  for  me.  Then 
they  would  slink  away  without  saying  good- 
bye or  even  a  "Toodle-oo,"  and  the  atmo- 
sphere of  that  oppressive  loneliness  would  be 
swept  away  with  them. 

In  the  old  days  of  many  mistakes  and 
gauche  offences  in  Guttergarten  I  remember 
being  once  overtaken  by  this  same  isolation 
in  the  middle  of  a  Christmas  supper-party. 

We  had  gathered  about  the  long  white 
table  laden  with  candles  and  flowers  and  the 
inevitable  gaudy  profusion  of  bilious  cakes. 
Lizzie  and  Topsy  were  there  side  by  side, 
dressed  exactly  alike  in  purple  plush  bodices 
and  a  crimson  rose  poised  delicately  on  the 
frizzled  head  of  each. 

Johnny  had  brought  the  boy  who  blows 
the  organ  at  the  Mission  to  protect  him  from 
the  deadly  enemy  of  Gutter  loneliness,  and 

232 


The  Frown  of  Guttergarten 

Blanchie  had  looked  in  for  a  few  minutes  on 
her  way  to  a  professional  turn  at  a  public- 
house  concert  in  the  neighbourhood.  She  was 
resplendent  in  all  the  cheap  magnificence  of 
her  frilled  skirts  and  slim,  pink-stockinged 
legs,  with  thin  cheeks  painted  to  a  hot  flush 
which  the  stare  of  coarse  criticism  and 
drunken  admiration  had  long  ago  ceased  to 
kindle  there.  Her  dancing  eyes  were  alive 
with  mischievous  invitation  and  her  pert 
profile  tossed  self-conscious  smiles  at  us  over 
an  impudently  tilted  shoulder. 

"Ain't  'er  lovely! "  whispered  the  enchanted 
company,  and  the  organ-blower  was  feeling 
"sweet  on  her,"  and  fast  losing  control  of  his 
ardent  boyish  heart. 

His  name  was  Laughing  Alf,  because  he 
had  never  yet  been  seen  with  a  straight  face. 
He  had  an  amazing  and  profound  devotion 
to  his  sacred  vocation,  and  blew  the  organ  as 
tenderly  as  his  own  mother  rocked  her  baby's 
cradle,  but  he  could  not  help  smiling  over  it 
all  the  time. 

11 1  wish  you  would  not  let  your  face  slip  so 
frequently!"  the  Gutter  Parson  had  once 

233 


Gutter-Babies 

peevishly  remarked  when  the  broad  enjoy- 
ment upon  the  organ-blower's  honest  face 
had  more  than  usually  irritated  him  during 
the  Office  Hymn.  But  in  spite  of  this  reproof, 
which  Laughing  Alf  took  bitterly  to  heart, 
his  face  continued  to  slip  in  the  accustomed 
way  and  his  nickname  stuck  to  him  through 
the  years.  On  the  other  side  of  the  table  storm 
clouds  were  gathering.  The  younger  Lizzie 
was  forgetting  herself.  Her  temper  was  slowly 
rising  and  nobody  knew  exactly  why. 

"Wotcher  grinnin'  at,  yer  fule?"  she  sud- 
denly enquired  sharply  of  Laughing  Alf, 
whose  shy  grimaces  above  his  plate  of  Christ- 
mas pudding  had  fixed  their  wandering 
attention  in  her  direction. 

"It  don't  matter  which  ways  yer  looks  at 
'im,  Vs  always  laughin'.  If  'e  were  to  drop 
dead  afore  our  very  eyes,  'e'd  still  be  laughin' 
all  the  time  we  was  layin'  of  'e  out!"  Topsy 
observed  irritably,  with  a  glance  at  her  pal's 
wrathful  profile. 

Special  Johnny's  puzzled  countenance  rose 
suddenly,  round  and  greedy,  from  the  over- 
loaded plate  which  had,  till  this  point,  entirely 

234 


The  Frown  of  Guttergarten 

absorbed  his  attention.  He  had  recognised  the 
fact  that  Laughing  Alf ,  for  whose  introduction 
to  the  company  and  subsequent  behaviour 
he  was  painfully  responsible,  had  become  the 
centre  of  an  atmospheric  disturbance. 

He  plunged  furiously  with  a  cruel  thin 
elbow  at  the  ribs  of  his  disorderly  protege. 
"I'll  stick  me  bleedin'  fork  in  yer  silly  old 
eye  in  a  minute,"  he  warned  him,  while  the 
nervous  Alf  smiled  blandly  on. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  narrow  strip  of 
white  table  the  younger  Lizzie  had  abandoned 
herself  completely  to  an  acute  attack  of  the 
Gutter-sulks.  Her  dark  face  rose  above  the 
bright  flowers  and  trembling  candle-flames, 
set  in  rigid  frowns,  and  her  black  eyes  flashed 
wild  and  narrow  under  her  lowered  brows. 

There  was  an  uncomfortable  sense  of  com- 
ing disaster  in  the  air,  and  the  pudding  cooled 
untasted  while  we  waited  for  the  warning  of 
the  inevitable  explosion. 

Lizzie,  wrapped  in  her  sulks,  refused  speech 
but  the  others  began  to  chatter  foolishly. 

"I  can  make  people  cry,"  bragged  the  Art 
Nursling;  "it's  a  much  finer  thing  to  do  than 

235 


Gutter-Babies 

making  them  laugh.  There  ain't  a  dry  eye 
in  the  'Ouse  when  I'm  singing  'Mother's 
little  blue-eyed  boy/" 

"Yer  clever  if  yer  can  make  Laughin*  Alf 
cry,  then!"  snapped  Topsy,  who  was  upset 
at  her  friend's  confusion.  "  'E's  got  no  feel- 
in'satallin'iml'E'asn't!" 

At  this  point  an  expert  hostess  might  have 
done  much  to  remedy  the  situation,  but  over 
me  had  swept  suddenly  that  fiercely  annihil- 
ating wave  of  Gutter-loneliness,  and  I  was 
floundering  helplessly  in  an  outside  atmo- 
sphere, somewhere  far  away,  behind  the  shrug 
and  the  frown  of  Guttergarten. 

In  another  moment  Blanchie  would  have 
taken  on  a  bet  to  subdue  the  persistent  merri- 
ment of  Alf  with  the  cunning  of  her  arts.  But 
loud  knocks  below  announced  the  arrival  of 
those  who  were  to  take  her  from  us  to  charm 
another  audience. 

"It's  my  Dadda!  I  ain't  goin'  with  'im!" 
she  protested  firmly;  and  we  waited  for  the 
usual  scene  as  she  tripped  away  defiantly  to 
greet  him  with  cheerful  opposition. 

"  It  don't  suit  me  to  come  just  now!  Shan't 
236 


The  Frown  of  Guttergarten 

dance  and  sing  till  I  chooses  any'ow,  even  if 
yer  do  make  me!  And  if  yer  'its  me,  yer'll 
only  black  me  eye,  or  spoil  me  new  dress! 
Leave  me  be,  I  tells  yer!" 

There  was  only  a  very  brief  discussion  over 
the  matter.  A  man's  harsh  laugh  and  a  little 
frightened  squeal  of  pain  and  we  knew  that 
Blanchie  had  been  reduced  to  submission. 

"Whacky- whack!"  said  Special  Johnny 
with  solemn  intelligence,  and  we  heard  the 
catch  in  the  proud  little  voice  that  called 
bravely  up  the  stairs,  "Toodle-oo,  girls,  I'm 
out  of  this  scene!" 

With  the  Art  Nursling's  departure  had 
evaporated  every  faint  ray  of  sunshine  and 
hopeful  suggestion  from  the  gloomy  atmo- 
sphere of  that  table  where  I  was  a  stranger 
among  my  own  guests. 

"Ain't  'er  come  over  red  in  the  mug!"  re- 
marked Johnny  clumsily,  as  his  observant 
eyes  fell  before  the  frowning  gaze  of  Lizzie. 
It  was  always  the  part  of  Special  Johnny  to 
pounce  upon  the  psychological  moment  and 
hasten  the  crisis  in  any  complication  of 
Gutter-affairs.  Once  again  in  the  long  history 

237 


Gutter-Babies 

of  our  correspondence  he  had  come  to  the  res- 
cue. For  Lizzie's  sulking  fit  broke  into  a  hot 
burst  of  passion  and  drove  her  out  wrathfully 
from  us.  Topsy  rose  in  dignity  to  hasten  to 
her  aid  with  consolation,  while  the  bitter 
cloud  of  Gutter-loneliness  lifted  slowly,  and 
the  warm  heart  of  Guttergarten  smiled  out  at 
me  in  sympathy  once  more,  between  the  nerv- 
ous excitement  of  Alf's  hysterics  and  the 
healthy  greed  of  Special  Johnny's  insatiable 
appetite  as  he  made  a  careful  tour  of  the 
neglected  plates  and  gathered  up  with  a 
patient  sticky  finger  every  unappreciated 
luxury. 

"  Serve  'er  glad,"  he  declared  amid  the  diffi- 
culties of  an  over-crowded  mouth ;  "next  time 
there's  a  party,  there  won't  be  no  party; 
Little  Johnny  come  by  'isself.  'Er  ain't  got 
no  call  to  show  off  all  those  hairs  afore 
company!" 

But  it  was  a  useful  lesson  without  which 
the  educational  system  of  Guttergarten  would 
have  been  quite  incomplete.  For  never  since 
have  I  lightly  undertaken  the  perilous  func- 
tion of  a  Gutter-hostess,  and  I  am  never 

238 


likely  to  forget  the  awful  significance,  the 
freezing  horror  of  the  frown  of  Guttergarten. 

There  is  a  time  coming  when  we  must  yet 
more  seriously  contemplate  the  fickle  hu- 
mours and  moody  temper  of  the  beloved 
country.  Somewhere  down  in  the  deep  and 
gentle  breast  of  Guttergarten  sulks  the  lion 
heart  of  disappointed  and  perverse  humanity. 
It  is  the  Gutter  Parson's  pet,  like  the  wolf  of 
St.  Francis,  but  it  is  not  half  tamed  yet  and 
cannot  be  trusted  quite  to  lick  his  hand.  The 
Philanthropist  pats  and  caresses  it,  and  the 
Politician  pacifies  it  with  many  an  improb- 
able promise.  But  the  sudden  sulk  of  Gut- 
tergarten and  the  occasional  unaccountable 
lack  of  response  to  our  efforts  among  the 
Gutter-dwellers  warns  us  that  the  great 
Beast  in  Guttergarten  is  still  crouching  for 
the  spring. 

There  are  some  mornings  when  Gutter- 
garten gets  up  in  a  bad  temper  and  gives  no 
reason  at  all  for  the  phenomenon  of  its  grey 
and  sullen  face.  Yesterday,  perhaps,  the 
Gutter  Parson  on  his  long  round  of  sick-calls 
may  have  been  greeted  deferentially,  and  with 

239 


Gutter-Babies 

the  most  astonishing  cheerfulness  by  every 
visible  member  of  his  straying  flock. 

"Mornin',  Uncle,"  squealed  the  factory 
girls,  with  merry  courtesy;  the  old  women 
blessed  him  with  profound  devotion,  and  the 
Gutter-babies  called  loudly  to  one  another  of 
his  arrival  among  them  and  swarmed  round 
him  in  a  little  body-guard  till  he  reached  his 
destination. 

"What  number  did  yer  say,  Mister?  — 
twenty- two?  —  'ere  't  is,  two  knocks  and  a 
walk-in.  'Er  died  this  mornin',  Father.  She's 
a  beautiful  corpse." 

And  then  they  waited  for  him  till  his 
ghastly  visit  was  ended  and  he  was  ready  to 
be  escorted  somewhere  else. 

But  to-morrow  perhaps  it  may  be  very 
different.  The  strings  of  factory  girls  will 
only  stare  rudely  and  collapse  in  hysterical 
amusement  after  he  has  passed. 

"Good  morning,  —  a  fine  day!"  he  will 
remark  to  the  very  same  weary  old  women  as 
they  stare  drearily  out  of  their  tired  eyes  at 
him  without  pleasure  and  without  welcome. 

"'Ere's  Father!"  the  Gutter-babies  will 
240 


The  Frown  of  Guttergarten 

soon  herald  him,  but  with  a  curious  subtle 
note  of  malice  and  distrust  in  their  shrill 
threatening  voices.  And  it  will  be  quite 
representative  of  the  extraordinary  attitude 
of  this  new  phase  of  Guttergarten  if  Special 
Johnny  suddenly  springs  up  in  the  way  with 
his  little  fists  menacingly  doubled,  saying,  — 
"I'll  knock  the  bleedin'  'ead  off  of  you!" 

I  have  been  a  long  time  among  the  Gutter- 
dwellers,  and  I  have  seen  Guttergarten  turn 
its  face  from  me  many  times,  but  I  have  never 
been  told  the  reason  of  this  change  of  heart  or 
known  why  such  a  bitterness  of  punishment 
was  inflicted  upon  me. 

Even  the  Gutter-babies  fasten  themselves 
about  one's  heart  with  their  small  clinging 
fingers  and  wistful  affections,  only  to  loose 
themselves  suddenly  now  and  then  with  a 
painfully  self-assertive  independence. 

"I  don't  speak  to  'er  no  more!"  declares 
one  after  another  of  the  little  people  as  they 
drop  abruptly  and  with  the  most  wilful  assur- 
ance out  of  the  very  centre  of  one's  life  into 
an  abyss  of  profound  indifference. 

"Don't  lose  one  of  them!"  is  the  warning 
241 


Gutter-Babies 

cry  that  rings  through  this  Guttergarten  of 
many  treasures.  But  in  spite  of  every  care 
they  will  give  us  the  slip,  though  they  always 
come  back  again  and  just  as  soon  as  they  feel 
the  real  need  of  us.  It  is  possible  that  some 
day  perhaps  we  shall  in  this  way  lose  the 
whole  of  Guttergarten  at  once. 

Of  course  there  has  always  been  a  Beast  in 
every  garden,  but  the  Beast  that  is  led  by  the 
little  hands  of  the  Gutter-baby  is  big  enough 
to-day  to  make  cowards  of  some  of  us.  The 
ancient  Quest  has  always  had  very  much  less 
to  do  with  the  Beast  Bogey,  which  is  so 
grossly  evident,  than  with  the  Elusive  Rose 
of  the  desired  Treasure,  which  is  secreted  in 
the  deep  Mystery  of  the  Garden  Bower. 

And  so  it  happens  that  in  Guttergarten  the 
struggle  which  must  somehow  terminate  in 
the  conquest  of  the  Beast  is  a  matter  of  second- 
ary importance  only  to  most  of  us.  But  the 
mystic  Rose  for  which  we  are  ready  to  storm 
Guttergarten,  in  spite  of  brute  growling  and 
the  briar-hedge,  is  the  fresh  and  budding 
sweetness  of  a  Gutter-baby's  heart. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

Thursday 

DICKY,     the     one-legged     crossing- 
sweeper,  quite  contrary  to  his  usual 
habits,  was   spending  the   evening 
at  home. 

,  He  sat  beside  his  wife's  bed,  with  a  patheti- 
cally injured  expression  on  his  weatherbeaten 
face,  for  she  was  dying.  There  was  nothing  he 
could  think  of  that  had  not  been  done  for  her, 
and  yet  she  was  dying. 

He  had  even  bought  her  a  little  bunch  of 
grapes  in  the  market  on  the  way  home.  He 
knew  she  had  always  had  a  fancy  for  them, 
though  he  had  never  thought  of  buying  them 
for  her  before. 

"'Ave  a  grape,  me  gal!"  he  had  said,  dis- 
playing his  gift  with  self-conscious  gratifica- 
tion, and  she  had  not  cared  to  disappoint  him. 
So  he  had  spent  an  unprofitable  half-hour  in 
removing  the  pips  from  the  little  skinny  green 
bags  with  clumsy,  patient  fingers.  It  seemed 

243 


Gutter-Babies 

to  him  as  if  she  had  quite  enjoyed  them,  until 
he  discovered  that  they  were  all  collecting  in 
a  little  heap  in  a  handkerchief  under  the  pil- 
low. He  had  been  very  cross  with  her  then  over 
her  wilful  deception,  and  she  had  cried.  And 
he  had  kissed  her.  He  did  not  remember  hav- 
ing kissed  her  before  since  they  were  married. 
She  was  not  pleasant  to  kiss  at  all.  He  no- 
ticed how  dark  and  shrivelled  her  skin  was, 
almost  like  the  leather  on  his  own  boot.  They 
had  told  him  her  inside  was  eaten  away  with 
cancer.  Bah !  it  made  him  feel  quite  sick. 

That  doctor  was  a  fraud.  He  had  been 
coming  regularly  every  day,  and  what  good 
had  he  done  her?  Those  parish  doctors  that 
you  did  n't  have  to  pay  for  were  no  class.  She 
was  dying,  after  all.  He  began  to  think  what 
it  would  be  like  in  Guttergarten  without  her. 
He  would  have  to  make  his  own  tea  and 
frizzle  his  own  bacon  when  he  came  in.  Who 
would  do  his  washing?  He  found  himself  sud- 
denly wondering  how  one  made  a  bed,  or 
cleaned  out  a  room.  These  things  had  always 
happened  in  his  home,  somehow.  Perhaps 
they  would  not  happen  any  more.  He  had 

244 


Thursday 

often  envied  his  wife  sitting  at  home  by  the 
fire  all  day  while  he  shivered  in  the  wind- 
swept street  or  shovelled  up  the  greasy  mud 
while  the  rain  drenched  his  poor  deformed 
body  through  his  thin  ragged  clothes.  Per- 
haps she  had  been  busy  after  all.  Who  would 
mend  for  him  now,  and  patiently  patch  those 
frayed  and  threadbare  trousers  through  an- 
other winter?  A  wave  of  intensely  real  emo- 
tion shuddered  through  the  heart  of  the 
crossing-sweeper  as  he  looked  at  the  pitiful 
twisted  face  of  his  dying  wife. 

And  then  quite  suddenly  he  remembered 
that  there  were  other  women  in  Guttergarten. 
Women  who  could  be  kissed  and  even 
"treated";  gorgeous  women,  some  of  them, 
with  big  eyes  and  saucy  tongues.  He  sup- 
posed any  woman  would  do  all  those  little 
things  in  his  home  just  like  his  wife.  She  was 
dying.  Well,  let  her  die,  then,  —  the  sooner 
the  better,  for  he  knew  that  her  pains  were 
cruel.  He  found  himself  hoping  that  it  would 
happen  very  soon.  Perhaps  if  the  Gutter 
Parson  came  she  would  die  quicker.  It  was 
his  business  to  start  people  on  the  last  jour- 
245 


Gutter-Babies 

ney.  That  was  one  of  the  things  they  kept 
him  for.  Anyway,  it  was  right  for  her  to  see 
the  Priest,  of  course.  He  had  never  been  a 
religious  man  himself;  still  he  had  not  gone 
to  bed,  that  he  could  remember,  without  say- 
ing a  "Glory  be"  since  he  was  a  little  lad  at 
the  Sunday  School.  He  called  loudly  up  the 
stairs  of  the  Gutter  Castle  for  the  elder 
Lizzie  who  "did"  for  him  and  the  sick  wife 
just  now. 

"  I  've  now  took  a  fancy  into  me  'ead  to  'ave 
the  Priest  fetched  to  my  gal!"  he  explained. 

The  elder  Lizzie  gave  him  an  incredulous 
stare.  Then  she  lifted  a  corner  of  her  apron 
to  one  eye  and  wiped  it  slowly. 

"Wot?"  she  asked  still  staring. 

Dicky  repeated  his  information.  "I've  a 
fancy  as  my  gal  should  'ave  the  Priest  fetched 
to'er!" 

Lizzie  dropped  the  corner  of  her  apron 
abruptly  and  her  eyes  grew  round  and  dry.  i 

"Yer  devil!"  she  said;  "yer  must  be 
a-wishin'  of  she  to  die,  and  after  all  me  trou- 
ble, too.  I  'm  sure  I  've  treated  'er  as  fair  as 
me  own  sister.  I  '11  fetch  the  Priest  me  very 

246 


Thursday 

self,  and  me  prayer  is  you'll  be  done  in  yer 
eye.  There's  many  a  sick  creature  'e's  put 
on  their  pore  legs  again,  just  when  they 
thought  they  was  gone!" 

Dicky  went  back  to  his  watch  beside  the 
sick-bed.  The  Gutter  Parson  would  be  here 
presently.  He  was  known  to  be  very  prompt 
on  such  occasions,  but  the  crossing-sweeper 
was  feeling  a  little  queer  inside.  It  was  tire- 
some, that  way  the  women  had  of  knowing 
just  what  you  would  never  have  thought  of 
telling  anyone.  Women  were  mean  things; 
perhaps,  after  all,  those  other  women,  with 
bold  eyes  and  lips  he  could  kiss,  would  not 
do  for  him  so  quietly  as  this  poor  dying  crea- 
ture had  done.  But  he  was  sure  it  was  right 
for  the  Priest  to  be  fetched.  He  was  not  a 
religious  man,  no  one  could  laugh  at  him  for 
that.  He  had  never  been  to  Church  for  what 
he  could  get  like  some  others.  But  the  child- 
ren had  been  to  Sunday  School  regularly. 
Perhaps  he  trusted  more  than  he  knew  to  his 
nightly  repetition  of  "Glory  be."  Anyhow, 
he  did  feel  certain  that  when  his  last  moment 
came,  he  would  expect  the  Gutter  Parson  to 

247 


Gutter-Babies 

see  him  safely  through.  He  had  not  thought 
at  all  what  would  happen  if  he  died  suddenly 
in  a  fit  or  by  accident.  He  could  not  think  of 
such  things.  God  would  be  kind  to  the  last 
to  the  one-legged  crossing-sweeper.  And  yet 
Dicky  knew  that  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart 
he  was  looking  forward  to  this  visit  with  dim 
apprehension.  Nobody  knew  what  nonsense 
the  elder  Lizzie  might  have  been  talking,  as 
she  hurried  the  Gutter  Parson  to  obey  his 
summons.  Perhaps  when  they  arrived  he 
would  tell  the  gentleman  that  his  wife  was 
better.  A  new  idea  suddenly  came  to  him; 
perhaps  the  dying  woman  would  not  want  to 
see  the  Priest  at  all.  In  the  mean  time  he  felt 
that  he  wanted  to  be  kind  to  her. 

She  was  sitting  up  with  a  bundle  of  pillows 
behind  her,  and  her  head  sunk  forward  on  her 
shrunken  breast.  Now  and  then  she  stretched 
out  a  lean  hand  and  groped  about  with  it  in 
the  darkness  which  had  gathered  round  her 
and  sometimes  her  blackened  lips  moved 
feebly,  '"Elpme!" 

"I  am  'elpin'  yer,  me  gal,"  said  Dick  ten- 
derly; "wot  can  I  do  for  yer?" 

248 


Thursday 


"I  wants  me  Communion  on  Thursday!" 
whispered  the  sick  woman. 

Dicky  remembered  suddenly  that  she  had 
often  slipped  out  on  Sunday  mornings  early; 
he  had  thought  she  used  to  buy  the  meat 
then.  If  he  had  known  she  was  going  to 
Church  there  would  have  been  a  row.  So  after 
all  she  had  deceived  him.  She  had  not  been 
a  good  wife  to  him.  She  was  dying,  —  the 
sooner  the  better! 

"Termorrer,"  said  Dicky.  "We  needn't 
wait  till  Thursday." 

"Thursday,"  whined  the  sick  woman;  "I 
said  Thursday." 

It  was  the  Gutter  Parson  who  stood  sud- 
denly near  him  at  the  bedside  and  startled 
Dicky.  So  he  had  come,  and  he  had  walked 
in  just  as  if  the  place  belonged  to  him.  The 
Crossing-sweeper  would  have  liked  to  swear, 
but  he  did  not.  He  looked  up  once  at  that 
quiet  kindly  face,  the  face  of  a  strong  man 
with  two  legs  and  a  mind  that  was  not  shifty 
like  his  own,  and  he  did  not  look  again. 

He  had  never  got  out  of  his  own  room  quite 
so  quickly  before  since  the  amputation  of  his 

249 


Gutter-Babies 

left  leg,  but  he  had  been  glad  to  go  when  the 
Priest  had  asked  to  be  left  alone  with  the 
dying  woman.  He  felt  like  a  stranger  in 
there,  with  his  own  wife  and  the  Gutter 
Parson  both  talking  about  things  he  did  not 
understand.  He  began  to  wish  he  had  gone 
with  her  to  buy  the  meat  on  Sundays. 

When  he  was  called  back  again  into  the 
room,  he  came  creeping  and  looking  curiously 
about  him.  The  Gutter  Parson  was  putting 
a  violet  ribbon  into  his  pocket. 

"I'll  bring  you  the  Blessed  Sacrament  to- 
morrow!" he  promised. 

"Thursday;  I  said  Thursday!"  muttered 
the  sick  woman. 

The  Gutter  Parson  looked  dubious,  for  it 
seemed  scarcely  possible  that  the  withered 
shrunken  body  on  the  bed  could  imprison  a 
human  soul  so  long. 

"Well,  Thursday!"  he  agreed  reluctantly; 
and  Dicky  was  alone  on  the  doorstep. 

When  he  went  back  to  the  bedside,  his  wife 
was  whispering  feebly,  "  Is  it  Thursday  yet?  " 
she  asked. 

All  that  night  and  all  next  day  the  question 
250 


Thursday 


was  perpetually  on  her  lips,  "Is  it  Thursday 
yet?" 

Dicky  was  feeling  vaguely  uneasy.  What 
would  happen  on  Thursday?  He  did  not 
want  to  be  so  near  to  God.  He  did  not  want 
them  to  bring  God  to  his  home.  Dicky  had 
always  had  pleasantly  dim  ideas  about  God 
before.  Somewhere  or  other  in  a  big  place 
called  Heaven  he  believed  that  God  sat  on  a 
big  throne.  But  this  was  so  real  and  so  near, 
he  would  have  liked  to  run  away,  only  some 
dim  suggestion  of  loyalty  held  him  chained 
to  that  awful  mysterious  muttering  figure  on 
his  bed  who  called  to  him  so  often  to  "  'elp" 
her,  and  who  was  waiting  like  himself  for 
Thursday. 

At  last  the  day  came.  Dicky  woke  up  in 
the  grey  dawn  wondering  what  was  the  mat- 
ter. Suddenly  he  remembered.  It  was  Thurs- 
day. "Yus,  't  is!"  he  answered  as  he  caught 
sight  of  the  pale  lips  moving  beside  him. 

The  day  grew  slowly  while  the  sick  woman 
waited  joyfully  and  Dick  shuddered. 

"I  ain't  never  done  nothin'  wrong  to  no- 
body!" he  kept  assuring  himself. 

251 


Gutter-Babies 

At  seven  o'clock  the  elder  Lizzie  appeared, 
and  exiled  him.  Her  preparations  took  a  long 
time,  and  later  on  a  stranger  came  to  assist 
her.  Presently  the  bell  in  the  little  Mission 
Chapel  began  to  ring  and  he  heard  the  dying 
woman  ask  if  it  were  Thursday.  Perhaps  they 
had  not  answered  her;  he  crept  into  the  room 
and  looked  fearfully  round. 

"  It's  Thursday!"  he  said  with  a  trembling 
voice. 

"Ain't  'E  comin'  soon?"  asked  the  sick 
woman,  with  a  little  despairing  cry. 

Dicky  thought  it  would  be  soon.  He 
watched  the  two  candles  on  the  white-spread 
table.  They  were  guttering  in  a  cold  unnatu- 
ral draught  that  stirred  through  the  room. 
He  put  out  a  hesitating  hand  to  close  the 
window  and  saw  that  it  was  fastened.  A 
great  dread  took  possession  of  him  and  sud- 
denly he  dropped  on  his  knees  and  realised 
that  he  was  caught  in  a  trap.  There  was  no 
time  for  him  to  escape  now;  if  he  lifted  his 
bowed  head  for  an  instant,  he  knew  that  he 
would  meet  the  Face  of  God  and  die. 

For  this  little  stuffy  familiar  room,  with  its 
252 


scanty  hired  furniture  for  which  he  paid  ten- 
pence  a  night,  with  Sundays  thrown  in,  had 
at  that  moment  become  the  holiest  spot  in 
Guttergarten. 

"O  Gawd,  don't  come  into  my  'ouse!" 
whined  the  miserable  Dicky.  But  he  knew 
that  He  had  come,  and  even  then  he  was 
grovelling  in  the  dust  before  the  mysterious 
Prisoner  of  the  Pyx. 

The  awful  reality  of  this  Presence  was  so 
different  from  Dicky's  ordinary  dim  concep- 
tion of  the  far-away  God  Who  could  be  forgot- 
ten and  even  blasphemed. 

Oh,  if  only  he  could  get  away!  But  he 
would  never  be  able  to  get  away  again,  —  he 
would  never  be  able  to  forget. 

Dicky  was  nursing  a  whining,  cowardly 
heart,  and  praying  for  the  withdrawal  of  that 
intensely  real  and  dreadful  Thing. 

But  that  did  not  happen,  even  with  the 
Gutter  Priest's  own  intention.  "Behold  the 
Lamb  of  God!" 

Within  that  White  Circle  the  burning  Heart 
of  God  throbbed  through  the  stillness  of  the 
little  room  and  scorched  the  shrinking  soul  of 

253 


Gutter-Babies 

Dicky.  But  the  bowed  body  on  the  bed,  with 
its  stiffened  discoloured  lips  and  sightless 
eyes,  had  lost  the  power  to  become  the  taber- 
nacle of  the  Host  and  its  doors  were  shut  fast 
against  the  approaching  Guest. 

The  blood  was  surging  in  Dicky's  veins  and 
singing  in  his  ears,  but  he  dared  not  lift  his 
head.  He  heard  them  laying  the  body  down 
flat  in  the  bed.  One  of  the  pillows  slipped  to 
the  floor  beside  him.  He  heard  his  wife  speak 
in  a  voice  that  did  not  belong  to  her  at  all. 
She  was  dying  and  they  were  her  last  words. 
He  listened  eagerly  for  them. 

"Put  me  out  straight!"  she  muttered. 

"She's  thinking  of  her  coffin,  pore  dear!" 
explained  the  elder  Lizzie;  "'er  was  always 
thoughtful  up  to  the  last!" 

Then  she  pulled  out  those  crumpled  twisted 
limbs  tenderly,  and  whispered  into  the  dying 
ear,  "Don't  yer  fret,  me  gal,  yer'll  make  a 
lovely  corpse!" 

The  Gutter  Parson  was  saying  a  prayer, 
and  before  he  had  quite  finished  the  elder 
Lizzie  crept  behind  Dicky  and  flung  up  the 
window. 

254 


Thursday 


Five  minutes  later  the  little  room  held  only 
himself  and  Something  hidden  away  under  a 
sheet  on  the  bed. 

The  crossing-sweeper  got  up  slowly.  The 
little  candles  were  still  smoking  on  the  white- 
spread  table,  but  the  air  was  empty.  He  knew 
that  he  was  changed,  though  he  had  only  very 
vague  ideas  how  the  change  would  declare 
itself.  He  might  join  the  Salvation  Army  or 
he  might  get  drunk.  In  the  mean  time  he 
would  kneel  down  on  the  dirty  floor  and  say  a 
"Glory  be!"  before  that  little  throne  where 
the  Terrible  One  had  rested. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
The  Palm  Boy 

SOMEWHERE  high  up  in  the  blue  void 
that  hung  above  the  real  Guttergarten 
of  actual  fact,  floated  a  heaven  of 
imaginary  Idea,  into  which  the  little  mind  of 
Special  Johnny  made  bold  ecstatic  ventures. 
And  often  in  those  inquisitive  flights  he 
brought  back  with  him  some  captive  thought 
which  attached  itself  to  the  hard  edges  of  the 
real  Gutter-experience  and  became  in  time 
"his  idea."  And  then,  as  he  struggled  with 
the  expression  of  it,  in  order  that  he  might 
share  it  in  the  mysterious  communion  of  his 
own  people,  one  frequently  caught  vivid,  sud- 
den glimpses  of  that  other  land  of  dream 
and  promise,  where  the  wandering  minds  of 
the  Gutter-babies  lose  themselves  now  and 
then. 

Out  of  this  other  land  come  the  new-made 
Gutter-babies,  who  take  quite  a  long  time  to 
get  used  to  the  real  Guttergarten,  to  learn  its 

256 


The  Palm  Boy 

speech   and   become   initiated   into   all  the 
secret  ways  of  the  little  wild  people. 

Some  of  them  did  not  stop  long.  Perhaps 
they  were  frightened ;  at  first  big  people  were 
very  rough  with  new  Gutter-babies.  But  it 
was  silly  of  them  not  to  have  waited  a  little 
longer.  Things  were  so  very  different  in 
Guttergarten  as  you  grew  older.  They  had 
certainly  lost  a  splendid  chance.  It  was  very 
wrong  and  foolish  to  fling  away  the  kingdom 
of  Guttergarten  with  the  first  tear. 

And  some  of  them  came  back  again  and 
again.  They  could  not  rest  in  the  other  land 
when  they  had  once  seen  Guttergarten  and 
heard  a  Gutter-baby  laugh. 

There  was  little  Arthur,  for  instance. 

"Your  Mother's  got  a  born  by  by!"  said 
Special  Johnny  to  Boy  Jones,  the  little  black- 
eyed  Welshman  in  the  Gutter  Castle. 

"'Er  ain't,  then!"  protested  Boy  Jones. 

"Yer  bleedin'  liar!   I  see  the  doctor!" 

"  'Er  ain't  got  no  born  byby,  though ! "  per- 
sisted Boy  Jones. 

"'Er  'ave  a  born  byby;  ain't  I  'card  it 
'oiler?" 

257 


Gutter-Babies 

"Well,  it  ain't  no  born  by  by  if  yer  'ave!'f 

"Well,  'ow  can  it  'elp  bein'  er  born  byby  if 
it 'oilers?" 

"Well,  I  knows  it  do  'oiler!"  admitted  Boy 
Jones;  "but  it  won't  not  fer  long!" 

"Why,  yer  ain't  goin'  ter  throttle  it,  are 
yer?"  said  Johnny,  with  a  sudden  hopeful 
interest. 

"No,  I  ain't;  I  don't  love  'im  very  much,  but 
I  would  n't  go  for  to  'urt  'im — certainly  not ! " 

"Then  I'll  knock  yer  bloody  'ead  off!" 
announced  Johnny,  with  scorn,  "  'cos  yer  'ave 
got  a  born  byby,  yer  lyin'  devil!" 

The  Boy  Jones  stuck  two  helpless  fists  into 
his  black  tear-dimmed  eyes  and  sobbed.  He 
was  a  smaller  Gutter-baby  than  Johnny  and 
his  mother  had  kept  him  "nice."  He  was  not 
fit  to  be  alone  in  the  wild  places  of  Gutter- 
garten,  and  he  repented  bitterly  of  entering 
into  conversation  with  Special  Johnny. 

"Well,  I  never  meant  to  tell  anyone  but 
Mummy,  but  if  you  knocks  me  bleedin'  'ead 
off,  that  ain't  no  born  byby.  'E  comes  every 
year  and  'e  goes  away  again  in  a  few  days; 
'e  's  little  Arthur;  'e  ain't  no  byby!" 
258 


The  Palm  Boy 


"Don't  'e  grow?"  asked  Johnny,  deeply 
interested. 

"No,  'e  don't  grow,  nor  nothink  like  that; 
'e  's  some  little  pigeon,  'e  is,  says  Mummy!" 

"Will  'e  go  termorrer,  p'r'aps?" 

"  'E  don't  go,  'e  flies;  'ave  yer  done  with 
me'ead?" 

"  Yaas,  I  won't  touch  yer  'ead.  Wish  I  'ad 
a  little  pigeon,"  said  Johnny  regretfully. 

"  I  don't  know  'ow  it  is,  Miss;  I  lose  all  my 
babies.  I  'm  sure  they  don't  want  for  nothin', 
and  others  as  do,  and  run  the  streets  and  all, 
the  Lord  don't  notice.  It  ain't  very  encour- 
aging to  a  woman.  I  shan't  rear  none  of 
mine,  I  think,  sometimes;  they  are  a  'andful, 
Miss!"  said  poor  Mrs.  Jones,  as,  surely 
enough,  two  days  later,  the  pigeon  Arthur 
deserted  his  cradle. 

We  have  even  seen  the  outline  of  the  other 
land  as  we  stood  together  in  awe  and  wonder, 
upon  the  very  edge  of  the  great  unknown. 

It  was  at  Southend,  as  the  little  white 
waves  rolled  up  across  the  mud,  and  washed 
the  slimy  legs  of  Special  Johnny. 

"Can't  yer  see  the  other  land  plain?"  said 
259 


Gutter-Babies 

my  Gutter-baby,  with  his  wistful  gaze  turned 
out  to  sea. 

For  below  the  bank  of  red-hot  clouds  and 
behind  the  dropping  sun,  and  through  the 
folds  of  the  mist  we  traced,  quite  clearly,  the 
mystic  outline  of  the  other  land. 

There  had  been  much  to  wonder  at  all  day. 
There  had  been  merry  little  jumping  prawns 
to  play  hide-and-seek  with  us  in  the  slippery 
pools,  and  trails  of  blistered  seaweed  to  pop; 
there  had  been  waves  to  dance  with,  and  little 
bazaars  and  funny  side-shows  on  the  crowded 
promenade ;  but  as  the  excursion  train  whirled 
us  home  to  Guttergarten,  through  the  evening 
shadows  of  this  wonderful  day,  in  the  midst 
of  a  thousand  memories,  I  watched  now  and 
again  the  strange  deep  light  rekindle  in  the 
Gutter-baby's  eyes,  as  they  turned  out  to  sea 
once  more,  and  mapped  out  the  boundary- 
line  of  the  other  land. 

And  once  again  in  the  green  heart  of  the 
Park,  as  the  blue  mists  rose  high  between  the 
dark  lines  of  the  trees,  and  the  lights  of  Lon- 
don were  jumping  all  round  us,  as  we  travelled 
a  long  way  across  country  in  quest  of  an 

260 


The  Palm  Boy 


unfamiliar  tower  which  climbed  like  a  grey 
and  silver  thread  out  of  our  world  of  solid 
fact  and  beckoned  us  away. 

It  was  with  swift  and  sudden  steps  that  we 
set  out  on  that  journey  into  the  unknown.  It 
is  only  when  we  do  not  know  where  we  are 
going  that  we  move  with  real  energy,  and 
direction.  For  this  is  the  path  of  ecstasy,  that 
fails  abruptly  when  we  begin  to  realise  what 
a  barren  harvest,  after  all,  is  ours  in  the  land 
of  human  discovery. 

"Ain't  it  a  lovely  little  castle?  Shall  we 
both  live  there?"  suggested  Special  Johnny 
joyously. 

"Ain't  it  the  'Oly  City?"  he  chattered  on. 
"Will  there  be  Palm  Boys  there?" 

I  knew  that  now  I  had  stumbled  on  one  of 
his  "ideas." 

What  was  a  Palm  Boy?  And  how  did  this 
unfallen  inhabitant  of  the  Gutter-baby's 
Heaven  represent  the  height  of  his  ambition? 

"Will  I  be  a  little  Palm  Boy  if  I  gets  there?  " 
he  questioned  eagerly. 

"What  is  a  Palm  Boy,  Johnny?" 

"I  dunno!"  said  Johnny  sadly.  "And  I 
261 


Gutter-Babies 

dunno  'ow  yer  comes  to  be  a  Palm  Boy,  but 
I  wishes  as  'ow  I  was  one!" 

Who  could  have  guessed  the  secret  inspira- 
tion of  the  Gutter-baby's  life.  And  so  through 
all  his  merry  wild  existence  in  Guttergarten, 
in  the  quiet  places  of  his  mind  Special  Johnny 
had  hugged  the  pale  image  of  the  Palm  Boy 
and  fought  bravely  with  his  own  alarmingly 
forcible  little  personality  for  its  safety. 

It  is  true  that  when  we  found  the  Palace  of 
our  quest,  it  pretended  to  be  the  Albert 
Memorial,  but  the  Gutter-babies  are  not  so 
easily  taken  in.  We  heard  the  mocking 
laughter  of  the  illusive  land  and  the  children 
of  the  mist  scattered  before  us  as  we  started 
home. 

But  the  ghostly  terror  that  shrivelled  up 
the  little  heart  of  Special  Johnny  with  its 
dread  was  the  round  white  moon  that  hung 
itself  sometimes  in  the  night  of  Guttergarten 
and  flooded  the  shadows  with  a  pale  unearthly 
brilliance. 

"There's  a  white  woman  in  there!"  he 
told  me,  once,  in  trembling  awe;  "'er  frits 
little  Johnny!" 

262 


The  Palm  Boy 

"That's  only  the  Moon,  Johnny." 

"Well,  I  knows  as  that  is  what  they  says!" 
admitted  Johnny. 

But  he  knew  much  better  than  that,  and 
often,  beneath  the  spell  of  the  white  witch,  a 
moon-struck  Gutter-baby  sat  up  with  wide 
bright  eyes  of  terror  and  watched  with  curi- 
ous distrust  the  round  pale  light  floating 
ominously  over  Guttergarten. 

"Please  Gawd,  there  won't  be  no  Moon  to- 
night!" he  would  pray  piously,  as  he  tucked 
himself  away  in  the  blanket,  and  listened  for 
the  voices  of  the  other  land. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

Among  the  Deaf  and  Dumb 

ABROAD  belt  of  widening  sunlight 
brightened  the  dismal,  chilly  garret 
where  Jane  was  sleeping.  For  many 
days  past  she  had  been  just  a  handful  of 
shrunken  bones  heaped  together  in  a  reclining 
posture  among  her  cushions.  But  this  morn- 
ing she  was  to  wake  with  a  new  mind  sensitive 
to  impressions,  and  capable  once  more  of  sug- 
gestion and  response,  with  a  new  strong  con- 
sciousness, too,  of  the  things  of  life  appealing 
to  the  reviving  activities  within  herself. 

What  had  happened?  Ah,  yes,  she  could 
remember  now.  She  had  been  going  to  die. 

The  old  Gutter-world  that  she  had  loved 
so  dearly,  and  the  friendly  faces  that  had 
once  seemed  so  familiar,  had  slowly  withered 
into  the  distance,  which  is  beyond  correspond- 
ence and  recognition.  It  is  true  that  they 
had  been  for  a  long  time  much  less  real  to  her 
than  the  mysterious  creature-life  of  her  own 

264 


Among  the  Deaf  and  Dumb 

delirium;  but  now  they  were  going  from  her 
altogether. 

She  was  quite  ready  to  die. 

The  earth-dream  had  lately  become  a  mono- 
tonous and  meaningless  repetition,  and  those 
sad  faces  that  watched  about  her  were  foolish 
tear- washed  masks. 

And  then,  while  the  shadows  closed  in  upon 
her  with  their  deep  and  intense  invitation,  a 
human  voice  had  called  to  her  suddenly  and 
imperatively  out  of  the  emptiness  of  that 
other  almost  forgotten  side  of  things,  to  which 
belonged  the  clock  that  was  ticking  away  the 
minutes,  and  the  glass  of  water  which  she  still 
needed  from  time  to  time. 

For  now  she  was  to  live  again. 

Outside  her  window,  in  the  street  below, 
the  busy  Gutter-life  hummed  on  its  careless 
way,  and  claimed  her  interest  once  more.  She 
had  been  told  that  the  miraculous  interfer- 
ence which  had  thrown  her  back  into  the 
heart  of  Guttergarten  would  mean,  if  it 
occurred,  that  some  tremendous  destiny  had 
been  allotted  to  her.  Vague  wonder  and  in- 
quisitive speculation  as  to  the  nature  of  this 

265 


Gutter-Babies 

new  and  sudden  vocation  began  to  occupy 
her  sick  fancy.  Like  the  Blessed  Jeanne, 
whose  name  she  bore,  she  saw  herself,  now, 
riding  through  the  ranks  of  the  enemy  with 
the  honour  of  the  Gutter-dwellers  streaming 
like  a  white  flag  in  her  hands.  It  would  have 
been  so  much  easier  to  die. 

"There  ain't  nothink  that  I  ever  'card  of 
to  live  for ! "  she  had  often  told  those  watching 
faces  that  surrounded  her.  "Don't  take  on 
about  me  dyin',  it's  no  use  kickin'  up  a  shindy 
now.  I  ain't  'ungry  any  more!"  she  had 
assured  them. 

All  the  arrangements  for  the  great  journey 
had  been  completed.  Her  mother  had  been 
stitching  away  industriously  during  those  last 
interminable  days  and  nights  at  the  new 
black. 

"It  don't  do  to  be  took  all  of  a  sudden," 
she  explained.  "There'll  be  more  and  enough 
to  do  at  the  last,  mark  my  words!" 

Her  little  sisters  did  not  scruple  to  tell  her 
about  their  wonderful  new  dresses  with  crepe 
bows  and  all,  and  of  how  they  had  been  dared, 
in  spite  of  their  aching  appetites,  to  touch 

266 


Among  the  Deaf  and  Dumb 

those  two  sacred  pennies  on  the  shelf  which 
she  knew  were  solemnly  destined  to  rest  soon 
upon  her  own  tired,  heavy  eyelids.  Yes,  they 
had  all  been  quite  ready,  and  then  had  come 
the  sudden  closing  of  the  ways  and  the  biting 
snap  of  driven  bolts,  as  the  Gates  of  Gutter- 
garten  defied  abruptly  her  ambitious  venture. 
Memory  traced  weakly  for  her  the  dim  outline 
of  the  Priest's  white  garments  and  the  shad- 
owy hands  with  which  he  anointed  her,  but 
the  gracious  touch  of  Mystery  was  still  heavy 
upon  her  senses.  For  one  second  of  earth  she 
had  been  poised  in  the  timeless  grasp  of  cer- 
tainty, and  in  that  brief  flash  of  experience 
had  learnt  things  which  could  never  be  told 
by  her  to  the  little  men  and  women  of  the 
earth-dream,  who  were  still  patiently  wearing 
out  their  thin  lives  in  the  fretting  battle  of  the 
survival.  With  a  quiet  smile  she  remembered 
now  all  the  peevish  perversity  with  which  she 
had  fussed  over  the  last  preparations. 

"Not  me  feet!"  she  had  exerted  all  her 
despairing  strength  to  cry,  with  a  strange 
reluctance  to  offer  those  poor  crippled  useless 
members  to  the  operations  of  Mystery. 

267 


Gutter-Babies 

There  had  even  been  tears  of  rebellious 
helplessness  when  no  one  had  caught  her 
meaning. 

"Not  me  feet,"  she  was  struggling  to  pro- 
test, in  that  toneless  sinking  voice  that  was  no 
longer  her  own,  while  the  gathering  darkness 
called  to  her  fancy  out  of  a  little  yawning 
mouth  among  the  nameless  graves  in  the 
cemetery.  And  now  those  very  feet,  by  a 
curious  whim  of  Mystery,  not  to-day  or  to- 
morrow, perhaps,  or  even  the  day  after  to- 
morrow, but  one  day,  were  to  carry  her  out 
once  again  into  Guttergarten  upon  some  tre- 
mendous errand,  while  the  wisdom  of  the 
shadows  lay  hidden  in  her  heart. 

There  was  a  sound  of  heavy  boots  beside 
her  bed,  and  the  round  stolid  figure  of  Lily 
Ann  rolled  into  view  suddenly,  and  with  this 
unquestionably  material  apparition,  in  one 
shock,  the  whole  complicated  machinery  of 
the  old  Gutter-life  was  set  in  motion,  and  the 
earth-dream  forced  itself  back  into  intense 
realisation  once  again. 

Jane  observed  that  the  podgy  polished  face 
of  Lily  Ann  was  drawn  solemnly  into  unusual 

268 


Among  the  Deaf  and  Dumb 

proportions.  She  was  in  fact  making  heroic 
efforts  to  conceal  from  her  suffering  sister  the 
warm-hearted  eager  enjoyment  of  her  own 
robust  and  brimming  life. 

"Well,  I  never!"  she  said  at  last,  as  with 
widening  puzzled  eyes  she  examined  this  new 
Jane,  who  had  so  unexpectedly  returned  from 
the  far  country  beyond  the  pale  limit  of  Lily 
Ann's  wildest  thoughts.  "No,  I  never  did!" 

Jane  smiled  feebly.  "I'm  better!"  she 
explained  in  a  whisper. 

Lily  Ann  had  recently  departed  from  the 
home  circle  to  her  first  place.  "  I  always  likes 
to  get  me  gals  out  as  soon  as  possible,"  her 
mother  had  often  said.  "Them's  better  off 
by  a  long  ways  with  their  legs  under  some- 
one else's  table." 

And  so  Lily  Ann  had  reluctantly  aban- 
doned an  excellent  connection  in  step-clean- 
ing, strangled  her  ambitious  yearnings  for  the 
pickle  factory  where  her  "young  feller"  had 
an  interest,  and  started  out  into  the  world  the 
day  after  she  had  "turned  fourteen,"  with  a 
shabby  little  box  that  her  mother  had  used 
before  her,  packed  full  of  borrowed  clothes. 

269 


Gutter-Babies 

She  was  ready  and  willing  to  scrub  and  wash 
till  further  notice,  but  she  still  kept  her  self- 
respect  and  refused  to  wear  a  cap. 

"The  day  Lily  Ann  puts  on  one  of  them 
little  bonnets  'er  leaves  the  profession, "  she 
had  firmly  warned  her  new  mistress. 

So  Lily  Ann  was  humoured  because  of  her 
prodigious  aptitude  for  scrubbing,  until  her 
Gutter-pride  should  be  conquered  by  the 
desire  for  promotion  and  the  greed  of  in- 
creased wages. 

Lily  Ann  had  come  home  for  her  weekly 
visit  to-day  with  her  courage  screwed  up  for 
an  interview  with  her  sister's  corpse,  and 
with  half  her  earnings  in  a  fat  little  purse  in 
her  pocket. 

Her  squat  broad  figure  and  glowing  ruddy 
face  seemed  to  be  swollen  with  importance. 

"Ain't  yer  a  fair  marvel,  though?  Me  and 
Mother  quite  thought  as  you  was  gone  las' 
week!" 

"No,  I  'm  not  going;  I  'm  real  better!"  said 
Jane  with  a  shadow  of  disappointment  that 
there  should  be  nothing  more  to  say  about 
it  all  to  Lily  Ann. 

270 


Among  the  Deaf  and  Dumb 

"Why,  you're  a  fair  treat  to  what  yer 
was!" 

And  Lily  Ann  settled  down  to  the  inevit- 
able and  accepted  the  tremendous  miracle 
before  her  with  her  usual  unquestioning  sim- 
plicity. As  she  chattered  away  of  the  little 
things  of  that  tiny  edge  of  life  upon  which  she 
stood,  the  prison  walls  seemed  to  be  closing 
in  upon  the  dumb  soul  of  Jane  and  blotting 
out  the  vision  of  that  wide  free  atmosphere 
which  had  lately  become  her  home.  She  did 
not  know  that  this  must  be,  or  that  her  own 
safety  lay  in  the  bitterness  of  captivity.  For 
the  mind  that  climbs  highest  is  capable  of  the 
most  ambitious  descents  and  ecstasy  is  safest 
in  the  prison  of  a  bed  or  an  anchorite's  cell. 

Lily  Ann  was  talking  about  her  little  place. 
She  did  not  like  it  "not  such  a  wonder- 
ful much."  The  cook  was  a  bit  tiresome.  Lily 
Ann  had  had  to  give  her  a  piece  of  her  mind  to 
go  on  with. 

" '  Can't  yer  keep  that  oven  goin'? '  she  says 
to  me.  '  Not  ef  yer  sticks  yer  great  carcase  in 
the  light!'  I  tells  'er.  So  she  says,  says  she, 
1  Now ,  then ,  none  of  yer  rudery ! '  She  ain ' t  'arf 

271 


Gutter-Babies 

a  mis'able  old  stick.  —  Oh,  yes,  they  feeds 
yer  lovely,  and  the  time  passes  all  right,  but 
I  looks  at  the  clock  of  an  evenin*  and  thinks 
to  meself ,  it 's  nearly  over.  I  think  I  'm  hap- 
piest when  it's  time  to  go  to  bed!" 

Here  Lily  Ann's  shrill  voice  became  a  little 
jerky,  and  she  continued  between  frequent 
gulps,  "Sometimes  I  think  'ome  sweet  'ome's 
the  'appiest  place  after  all!"  and  poor  Lily 
Ann  dropped  her  podgy  heated  face  on  to  her 
broad  chest  and  gave  way  completely. 

Jane  was  moved  to  sympathy  at  once,  and 
longed  bitterly  for  words  to  tell  this  homesick 
Gutter-bound  little  creature  of  its  absurd 
limitations  and  unreasonable  affections. 

"Never  mind,"  she  said;  "I've  bin  away, 
too,  and  yer  gets  used  to  it,  Lily  Ann!" 

Lily  Ann  sat  up  and  mopped  her  eyes  with 
her  coat-sleeve.  She  was  quite  accustomed  to 
the  sick  girl's  ravings;  there  had  been  more 
than  one  night  when  she  had  had  to  help  her 
mother  to  hold  her  down  in  bed.  Perhaps 
Jane  was  not  so  much  better,  after  all,  and 
she  had  been  talking  too  much,  and  exciting 
her. 

272 


Among  the  Deaf  and  Dumb 

"Oh,  no,  no,  not  at  all;  yer  ain't  bin  no- 
where, don'cher  worry;  yer  shan't  go  to  no 
nasty  Infirmary,  not  while  I  can  work.  Not 
ef  I  'as  ter  give  yer  'arf  me  money  every 
week  and  doos  without  me  noo  'at  on  'Oliday 
Monday." 

Lily  Ann  rose  to  take  her  departure,  plant- 
ing a  sounding  kiss  upon  Jane's  paralysed 
lips,  and  hurried  away  uncomforted.  She 
would  never  be  able  to  hear  and  never  be  able 
to  understand  even  if  one  day  a  further  won- 
der should  open  the  mouth  of  the  miracle  of 
Jane. 

And  even  if  she  both  heard  and  understood 
she  would  only  say,  "Oh,  yus,  but  not  for  the 
likes  of  me  it  ain't  so.  I  likes  the  old  ways 
best!" 

It  is  easy  to  see  why  no  one  has  ever  been 
able  to  convert  the  Gutter-dwellers.  They 
feel  safest  in  their  own  rut  after  all.  But  Jane 
was  still  dumb  and  Guttergarten  was  deaf. 
She  turned  over  upon  her  pillows  and  went 
quietly  to  sleep. 

It  was  far  the  best  and  wisest  thing  for  her 
to  do.  This  is  the  last  refuge  of  the  Adventurer 

273 


Gutter-Babies 

and  holds  the  secret  science  of  the  shadows 
and  their  dreams. 

Her  face  had  been  growing  thin  and  weary 
with  effort,  but  now  the  dumb  lips  had  slipped 
into  peaceful  smiles.  She  was  at  home  again 
among  mouths  that  speak  and  listening  ears, 
among  the  grand  realities  of  insanity. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 
The  Christmas  Tree 

WE  were  cutting  bread  and  butter 
for  our  very  lives,  and  loading  the 
long  narrow  tables  in  the  school- 
room with  the  good  things  that  Gutter- 
babies  love. 

From  time  to  time  a  happy  approving  face 
appeared  for  an  instant  at  the  high  windows, 
as  one  and  another  of  the  little  wild  people 
climbed  laboriously  out  of  Guttergarten  to 
satisfy  his  own  curiosity  and  encourage  our 
progress  with  yells  of  delight. 

"Not  enough  yet?"  we  asked  at  frequent 
intervals,  with  increasing  weariness. 

And  the  Gutter  Parson  always  said,  "No- 
thing like!" 

So  we  turned  again  to  our  saws  and  packed 
up  plates  of  bread  and  butter  and  cake  to 
satisfy  the  ferocious  appetites  of  that  strange 
army  of  the  Gutter  Parson's  guests  which 
would  be  soon  upon  us.  He  was  very  busy 

275 


Gutter-Babies 

himself  in  our  midst.  For  in  the  heart  of  the 
Feast  he  had  set  the  Gutter-babies'  Christ- 
mas Tree,  and  even  now  he  was  poised  at  the 
summit  of  the  high  ladder  which  we  were  not 
to  touch  and  watched  in  panic,  that  he  might 
clip  tiny  candles  and  swing  gorgeous  baubles 
from  its  heavy  branches. 

As  we  pursued  our  ceaseless  occupations, 
between  the  shocks  of  the  saw,  as  it  cleft  a 
loaf  of  bread  into  twenty  pieces,  the  girl  who 
worked  beside  me  began  to  talk. 

"  It's  come  over  me  all  of  a  sudden,  do  you 
know,  Miss,  as  'ow  I  wants  to  get  married. 
What  do  you  think  about  'usbands,  Miss?" 

Before  I  could  answer  suitably,  she  was  off 
again  for  a  fresh  supply  of  butter,  but  soon 
returned  full  of  her  new  idea. 

"I  got  off  just  now,  Miss,  with  a  p'leece- 
man,  when  I  fetched  them  cakes  in  for  you. 
'E  says  to  me,  'You're  lookin'  very  'appy, 
Miss,  I  'opes  yer  feels  it? '  I  says,  '  Perhaps  I 
do.'  'E  says,  'I  ain't  never  seen  yer  'ere 
before;  girls  like  you  don't  live  in  this  street.' 
So  I  says,  'No,  I  don't  live  'ereabouts.'  'E 
says,  'Where  do  you?'  I  says,  'I  don't  know 

276 


The  Christmas  Tree 

as  I  cares  to  tell  yer  that.'  If  you  were  me,  Miss, 
would  you  go  out  and  fetch  some  more  cakes?" 

Already  the  myriad  candles  on  the  Gutter- 
babies'  Tree  were  springing  into  leaping 
tongues  of  precious  flame,  and  a  furious  bat- 
tery at  the  door  warned  us  to  apply  ourselves 
still  more  vigorously  to  our  labour. 

"  It  'ud  be  nice  if  I  'ad  a  little  'ome  and  you 
could  come  in  and  give  me  an  'and  with  the 
byby,  wouldn't  it?" 

At  last  we  were  ready.  Some  of  us  made  for 
the  door.  It  was  very  evident  from  the  sounds 
of  revelry  there  that  our  guests  were  not  go- 
ing to  be  late.  The  girl  who  had  been  working 
beside  me  was  pressing  eagerly  to  the  front. 
I  half  suspected  that  behind  the  apparent 
selflessness  of  her  fearless  energy  were  hopes 
of  the  policeman  outside.  And,  indeed,  it 
sounded  from  within  as  if  we  should  have  all 
hailed  his  presence  with  grateful  pleasure. 

But  in  Guttergarten,  the  friends  of  the 
Gutter-dwellers  must  not  associate  with  the 
Force.  To  be  seen  once  in  their  company  is 
to  be  cast  forth  for  ever  from  society,  unless 
of  course  you  are  "getting  off"  with  one  of 
.277 


Gutter-Babies 

them.  For  even  policemen  must  have  wives 
and  babies,  or  where  would  the  new  police- 
men come  from? 

But  if  you  lose  your  way  in  Guttergarten 
you  must  not  ask  a  policeman  to  help  you. 
There  are  always  plenty  of  Gutter-babies 
about.  If  you  want  to  know  the  time,  there  is 
the  clock  on  the  little  Mission  Tower.  We 
know  it  is  strangely  erratic,  and  the  hands 
toil  slowly  uphill,  and  slide  joyfully  down- 
wards on  the  other  side,  but  it  is  "  The  Time  " 
in  Guttergarten,  and  there  are  the  "hooters" 
besides,  and  the  Angelus,  and  the  spiteful 
tinkle  of  the  school-bell. 

We  had  gathered  at  the  door.  In  another 
moment  it  would  be  flung  wide  to  the  yelling 
street.  There  would  be  a  wild  rush  of  the 
little  people  upon  us.  Tables  and  benches 
and  plates  of  good  things  would  be  flung  on 
one  side,  in  the  brave  quest  to  be  foremost  in 
that  ring  of  glory  beneath  the  Gutter-babies' 
Tree. 

Some  of  us  grew  pale  with  dread,  for  we 
had  seen  the  might  of  Guttergarten  let  loose 
before. 

278 


The  Christmas  Tree 

But  the  Gutter  Parson  was  very  busy  with 
a  little  game  of  his  own. 

"  We  won't  let  them  in  just  yet,  dear!"  he 
said;  "you  see,  it  would  be  so  very  awkward 
if  they  knocked  us  all  over,  would  n't  it, 
dear?" 

And  then  we  saw  that  he  was  arranging 
some  of  the  benches  in  a  kind  of  maze  which 
each  Gutter-baby  would  have  to  tread  carefully 
all  by  himself,  before  he  reached  one  end  of  the 
long  table  where  he  must  slide  all  along  the 
bench  and  sit  by  himself,  staring  solemnly 
at  the  wonder  and  brightness  of  the  Gutter- 
babies'  Tree  until  one  by  one  his  little  mates 
successfully  completed  the  intricate  journey, 
each  in  his  own  turn,  and  joined  him  —  with 
a  sympathetic  "  Oo-er ! " 

It  was  an  excellent  idea,  of  course,  and 
would  have  saved  no  end  of  trouble  for  every- 
one. Only  excellent  ideas  do  not  often  come 
off  with  the  Gutter-babies;  if  there  is  a  flaw  in 
them  concealed  anywhere,  the  little  people 
are  quick  to  grasp  it,  and  they  are  amazingly 
suspicious  of  new  methods  and  the  "dodger." 

I  had  dim  apprehensions  about  the  success 
279 


Gutter-Babies 

of  this  manner  of  admittance,  but  hoped  for 
the  best. 

If  it  had  not  been  for  Special  Johnny,  there 
would  have  most  certainly  been  a  tremendous 
failure.  But  perhaps  there  is  a  Special  Johnny 
to  patronise  every  new  invention  before  it 
becomes  the  fashion.  Of  course  it  may  be  so. 

As  we  fumbled  with  the  heavy  bolts  and 
rattled  at  the  doors,  there  was  a  shrill  cry  of 
"Lock-up!"  the  thud  of  scampering  feet,  and 
a  sudden  silence,  as  we  were  left  looking  out 
into  an  almost  empty  street.  We  had  nerved 
ourselves  to  the  great  attack,  and  it  was  a 
little  disconcerting,  but  we  knew  that  they 
would  come  back  again  as  they  had  gone,  in  a 
body,  as  soon  as  the  temporary  excitement 
had  been  subdued.  So  we  stood  at  attention 
and  waited  for  them. 

Opposite,  the  tragic  ragged  figure  of  old 
Molly,  with  her  grey  locks  tangled  and  scat- 
tered in  the  bitter  wind,  crouched  on  the 
stones  and  chattered  to  her  muse,  as  she 
dipped  lumps  of  stale  bread  into  the  can  of 
tea  which  she  had  just  fetched  from  the 
coffee-house  for  a  halfpenny. 

280 


The  Christmas  Tree. 

Across  the  street  a  little  higher  up,  a  Gut- 
ter-baby was  taking  his  first  walk  under  the 
eager  supervision  of  the  child-mother,  Rosie. 
Into  the  middle  of  the  road  a  tiny  bundle  of 
rags  had  tottered  and  stood  swaying  there, 
in  bewilderment  and  the  supreme  misery  of 
the  first  desertion.  The  child-mother  cooed 
and  scolded  and  the  Gutter-baby  struggled 
bravely  to  control  his  heavy  little  body.  But 
at  the  top  of  the  street  a  little  black  cloud  was 
already  moving  in  bounds  toward  us.  It  was 
the  return  of  the  Gutter-babies,  and  even 
now  they  were  upon  us,  not  less  the  little  wild 
people  since  their  spirits  had  been  thrilled  by 
the  excitement  of  a  "Lock-up!" 

But  they  were  met  by  a  stern  wall  of  de- 
fence, and  that  strange  word  which  alone,  in 
the  whole  human  vocabulary,  has  force  to 
dismay  the  heart  of  a  Gutter-baby —  "One 
at  a  time,  please!" 

One  at  a  time!  Not  if  they  knew  it!  En 
masse  they  possessed  an  indomitable  courage 
and  a  heart  of  steel;  but  alone,  one  by  one, 
to  venture  into  the  mysterious  atmosphere 
of  that  other  world,  that  was  not  of  their 

281 


Gutter-Babies 

making,  to  stand  out  as  individuals  and  storm 
the  splendid  hospitality  of  those  whom,  bring- 
ing gifts,  they  had  been  schooled  to  fear,  was 
beyond  the  daring  of  the  wildest  of  the  little 
people.  Those  who  had  cried  "First"  so 
bravely  and  taken  their  stand  in  front  fell 
back  now,  and  a  few  at  the  rear  began  to  tail 
off  regretfully.  From  within,  the  vision  of  a 
mighty  feast  and  the  steaming  cans  of  tea 
stung  their  appetites  to  desire,  and  the 
majestic  circle  of  the  many-coloured,  many- 
lighted  Tree,  lured  and  fascinated  and  tugged 
within  at  their  heart-strings ;  but  it  could  not 
be  done.  No  Gutter-baby,  with  his  senses, 
who  was  quite  the  thing,  was  going  to  dive  in 
there,  all  by  himself,  with  a  black -cassocked 
Parson  and  a  crowd  of  the  other  kind  of  peo- 
ple, with  a  big  door  behind  him  that  might 
slam  upon  Guttergarten  any  moment  and 
shut  him  out  for  ever  from  his  own  kind  and 
the  blessed  heritage  of  the  Gutter-baby. 

They  all  knew  the  Gutter  Parson.  He  was 
"awful  kind"  when  you  were  sick  and  he  was 
all  right  in  your  own  street,  but  who  knew 
how  he  might  behave,  or  what  he  might  tell 

282 


A  Gutter-baby  was  taking  his  first  walk 


The  Christmas  Tree 

you  to  do,  when  he  got  you  inside  all  by  him- 
self with  no  one  to  see  fair  play?  They  could 
put  a  curse  on  you,  too,  "could  they  priests," 
they  could  make  you  sick  and  make  you  well 
again. 

One  at  a  time!  Let  him  ask  them  another; 
"they  weren't  goin'  into  no  bleedin'  party 
to  be  caught  in  a  trap." 

A  fierce  wave  of  claustra-phobia  swept 
over  the  little  wild  people  and  held  them  fast 
in  its  ancient  grip.  It  was  the  opposite  of  that 
other  old  primeval  fear  of  the  open  field, 
which  the  young  Gutter-baby  on  his  first 
walk  and  the  child-mother  were  struggling 
against  out  there  in  the  wind-swept  Gutter- 
street. 

But  at  this  point  I  singled  out  Johnny  in 
the  expectant  crowd  and  caught  his  eye 
appealingly.  It  was  with  a  tremendous  relief 
that  I  saw  him  swagger  forward. 

"'Oo  says  little  Johnny  won't  go  in?"  he 
bragged. 

There  was  a  great  stir  among  the  little 
people.  For  a  moment  they  swung  apart  to 
let  the  hero  pass,  but  almost  at  once  the  mind 

283 


Gutter-Babies 

of  Guttergarten  changed.  Was  this  a  Gutter- 
baby  braver  than  his  kind?  One  of  themselves 
who  could  defy  the  tribal  instinct  and  the 
hatred  of  individualism  upon  which  they  had 
been  bred?  For  a  moment  the  life  of  Special 
Johnny  was  in  peril,  and  he  realised  it  for 
himself  just  in  time. 

"There 's  a  woman  in  there  wot  knows  little 
Johnny!"  he  said  confidently.  "Her  loves 
little  Johnny,  her  won't  let  nothink  'appen  to 
'e  inside  of  there!" 

And  so  our  first  guest  sauntered  safely  in, 
scratching  his  head,  and  blinking  at  the  glory 
of  the  Tree,  and  embracing  the  whole  scene 
in  one  brief  word  of  infinite  satisfaction,  — 
"Oo-erl" 

And  now  they  swarmed  in  graciously,  in 
one  continuous  stream,  which  required  no 
further  stimulation  to  set  it  in  motion. 

In  a  short  time  the  Gutter  Parson  was  rub- 
bing his  hands  gleefully  over  the  success  of 
his  dee"p  stratagem.  Guttergarten  was  within 
and  the  doors  were  fast  upon  it.  And  then 
began  that  wild  and  glorious  dance  of  Gutter- 
garten round  the  Tree. 

284 


The  Christmas  Tree 

Of  course  there  was  nothing  at  all  original, 
or  unusual,  about  the  Gutter  Parson's  ideas. 
He  got  them  all  out  of  Guttergarten,  every 
one  of  them. 

Out  there  in  the  Gutter  he  had  seen  their 
little  pot-gardens,  and  had  no  doubt  thought 
about  this  big  Christmas  Bush  then.  They  all 
had  their  little  Grotto;  of  course  there  was 
nothing  funny  in  the  Gutter  Parson  making 
one  for  himself.  It  would  not  have  been  nice 
if  the  Gutter-babies  had  not  helped  him. 

He  was  only  a  big,  a  very  big,  Gutter-baby, 
after  all.  They  were  silly  ever  to  be  afraid  of 
him. 

It  was  just  like  Guttergarten  in  here  to- 
night. It  was  quite  easy  even  to  listen  to  the 
Gutter  Parson's  stories.  They  were  such  old 
old  stories  in  Guttergarten.  Perhaps  they 
were  new  to  him.  They  believed  he  had  not 
always  been  a  Gutter-baby. 

There  was  that  one,  for  instance,  about  the 
"Great  Lock-up"  that  made  them  cry.  It 
was  a  shame,  that  was.  They  would  be  good 
babies  if  they  knew  how. 

And  then  the  Child  of  the  Straw  and  the 
285 


Gutter-Babies 

Stable.  He  must  have  been  a  Holy  Gutter- 
baby,  for  He  was  the  God  of  Guttergarten, 
they  knew. 

When  they  had  finished  singing  the  hymn 
about  "the  little  Lord  Jesus  asleep  in  the 
'ay!"  Johnny  voiced  the  whole  mind  of 
Guttergarten  when  he  told  us,  with  a  wide 
and  happy  smile,  "I've  always  been  friends 
with'Im!" 

They  were  Christian  Gutter-babies  really 
just  then,  while  their  little  feet  flew  round  and 
round  the  white  circle  of  the  flaming  Tree, 
and  they  heard  in  the  music  of  the  dance  and 
the  rustle  of  those  heavily  laden  boughs  with 
their  curious  fruits  the  whisper  of  Mary's 
lullaby. 

They  were  little  Pagans,  perhaps,  again, 
and  in  their  blood  was  leaping  the  spirit  of 
ancestors  who  sacrificed  within  the  deep 
shadows  of  the  ancient  groves  in  the  days 
when  the  Tree  was  an  enemy  that  ate  up  the 
land  of  the  Primitive  Man. 

To  us  it  was  a  dance  of  mystery;  deep  down 
in  the  heart  of  the  Underworld  lay  buried  the 
roots  of  the  Gutter-babies'  Tree,  but  its 

286 


The  Christmas  Tree 

branches  swept  the  quivering  sky,  and  shad- 
owed the  Burning  Throne.  Who  and  what 
were  these  little  people  whom  we  entertained? 

Soon  the  melting  candles  would  burn  low 
and  be  carefully  extinguished,  one  by  one, 
till  the  giddy  dance  was  over  and  the  ring  of 
glory  had  faded.  On  the  long  tables  would 
remain  only  the  wreck  and  ruin  and  havoc  of 
our  wonderful  Feast.  Once  more  Gutter- 
garten  would  escape  from  us,  with  its  eternal 
problem,  with  its  living  riddle  and  its  golden 
heart. 

As  they  filed  scampering  past  us,  laden  with 
oranges  and  the  spoils  of  the  Tree,  and  were 
quickly  gathered  up  into  the  night  of  Gutter- 
garten,  I  caught  Johnny's  happy  smile,  and 
held  it  for  a  minute. 

"Ain't  we  mad  little  devils?"  he  cried. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

An  Omo-Pathetic  Opinion 


I 


^HERE'S  ten  of  'em!"  said  the 
younger  Lizzie,  as  the  Mission  clock 
warned  the  hour  of  Guttergarten. 
She  rose  wearily  from  my  armchair,  after  a 
prolonged  confidential  interview,  and  planted 
an  empty  cocoa-cup  on  the  vacant  seat, 
among  the  shabby  cushions.  "Ain't  it  er  life, 
what?  Now,  all  I've  got  before  me  to  look 
forward  to,  is  just  to  turn  in  and  wake  up 
ag'in  to  another  of  'em!  But  I  'm  glad  I  told 
yer  me  trouble,  Miss,  and  I  won't  forget  yer, 
Miss!" 

Lizzie  had  got  as  far  as  the  door  and  now 
hung  there  lingering  wistfully,  while  her  eyes 
wandered  lovingly  round  the  familiar  place 
where  she  had  enjoyed  giving  me  her  "even- 
ings," as  if  in  secret  farewell. 

Within  was  dimness,  except  for  a  little  light 
flickering  on  the  shelf  where  Lizzie  had  laid 
an  offering  of  faded  flowers  before  the  image 

288 


An  Omo-Pathetic  Opinion 

of  Mary,  for  secrets  had  passed  between  us 
that  the  gaslight  could  not  know.  But  illum- 
ination poured  upon  her  from  the  passage. 
It  was  a  quaint  and  picturesque  little  figure 
that  stood  framed  in  the  open  door.  Her  small 
sharp-featured  face,  with  its  piquant  beauty 
sadly  pinched  and  whitened  in  the  shock  of 
circumstance,  was  crowned  by  a  neat  row  of 
curling-pins,  and  above  her  black  hair  lay  in 
rolls  under  a  weatherbeaten  motor-cap.  A 
worn  shawl  was  dragged  across  her  thin 
shoulders,  and  a  sloppy  skirt  dangled  to  her 
ankles,  and  at  every  angle  her  unstockinged 
feet  escaped  the  imprisonment  of  her  boots. 

"I  do  feel  mis'able,  Miss!"  said  Lizzie. 

Perhaps  dimly,  in  the  minds  of  each  of  us, 
was  dawning  the  idea  that  we  were  really 
parting  for  a  more  than  usually  protracted 
absence.  For  I  had  just  committed  the 
extreme  folly  in  Gutter-friendship.  I  had 
obliged  Lizzie  with  five  bob,  to  get  her  Sunday 
dress  out  of  pawn  and  buy  herself  a  pair  of 
new  boots  for  'Oliday  Monday. 

In  consequence  of  this,  there  could  of  course 
be  no  prospect  of  seeing  Lizzie  until  a  con- 

289 


Gutter-Babies 

venient  time  had  elapsed,  to  permit  us  both 
to  forget  the  episode. 

"I  do  feel  mis'able!"  repeated  Lizzie. 

Suddenly  she  made  a  dash  at  me  with 
a  resounding  and  emphatic  kiss,  and  then 
bolted  for  the  stairs. 

Below,  I  heard  her  telling  Johnny,  brightly, 
that  he  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  "hisself  "  sit- 
ting on  my  doorstep  at  that  time  of  night, 
and  that  she,  a  decent  girl,  was  going  to  her 
home. 

Johnny  waited  till  she  had  vanished  through 
the  door  of  the  Gutter  Castle  and  then 
bounded  in  upon  me. 

"Lord!  'ow  girls  do  jaw!"  he  said,  squat- 
ting himself  down  upon  the  floor.  "This  two 
'our  I've  been  'ere  waitin'  to  tell  you  me 
news!  But  I  knew  you'd  be  glad  to  'ear  I  Ve 
got  'sumption  on  me  pore  chest!" 

Minute  enquiries  followed  as  to  the  exact 
nature  of  this  dreadful  something  which  had 
caused  Johnny's  sudden  interest  in  his  "pore 
'ealth."  But  we  got  very  little  satisfaction 
out  of  our  consultation,  and  at  last  we  decided 
to  call  in  the  aid  of  Johnny's  mother. 

290 


An  Omo-Pathetic  Opinion 

All  Johnny  knew  himself  was  that  he  had 
been  to  the  doctor  at  the  "Omo-Pathetic" 
dispensary,  and  the  doctor  had  pulled  out  a 
tooth,  and  told  him  about  his  "pore  chest." 

It  was  Saturday  night ;  there  were  very  few 
Gutter-babies  about  the  streets,  for  this  is  the 
one  night  in  the  week  when  they  are  bathed 
and  put  in  bed  early,  while  the  Gutter- 
mother  goes  out  to  shop  for  the  great  festival 
of  the  Sunday  dinner,  and  Daddy  is  drinking 
somewhere.  But  Guttergarten  was  very  busy. 

We  passed  rows  of  stalls,  lit  by  flaming 
torches  and  crowded  with  eager  custom.  The 
voices  of  the  hawkers  crying  their  wares 
pestered  us  cheerfully  as  we  hurried  through 
the  traffic. 

"  Buy!  buy!  buy!  buy!  now,  don't  miss  this 
little  leg  o'  mutton;  slip  down  yer  belly  like  a 
wheelbarrer,  it  will!" 

But  we  were  entirely  occupied  with  John- 
ny's chest.  He  even  coughed  once,  or  at  least 
we  fancied  that  it  was  so,  as  we  hastened  on. 
At  home  Johnny's  mother  was  very  busy. 
She  was  washing  Gutter-babies.  Johnny  had 
escaped  to-night  because  of  his  new  com- 

291 


Gutter-Babies 

plaint,  but  she  was  now  far  too  absorbed  in 
the  difficulties  of  her  occupation  to  think 
about  him  any  more. 

"Evenin',  Miss!"  she  said.  "You'll  'scuse 
me,  won't  yer,  but  this  baby's  goin*  blue  in 
the  water.  I  must  wipe  'im  over!  Sit  still, 
yer  devil!  Johnny,  go  and  fetch  me  Phillie! 
Markie,  if  you  don't  put  yer  shift  on,  I  '11  tear 
the  liver  out  of  you!  Are  you  goin',  then, 
Johnny?" 

"I  ain't  goin,"  said  Johnny;  "me  chest's 
bad!" 

Johnny's  mother  dropped  the  blue  baby 
into  the  bath  again,  and  with  soapy  arms 
dived  at  Johnny's  head.  But  he  dodged,  wail- 
ing piteously,  "Yer  must  n't  'it  me;  I  'm  er 
pore  little  Johnny,  I'm  sick!" 

"What's  this  about  Johnny's  chest?"  I 
asked,  as  soon  as  the  chaos  had  subsided 
enough  to  make  conversation  possible. 

To  Johnny's  mother  the  sudden  question 
brought  to  mind  a  forgotten  evil. 

"Gawd,  Miss,  I  wish  yer  'ad  n't  mentioned 
it  just  now,  Miss,  with  all  this  lot  to  bath! 
'Ow  can  I  think  as  I  should  about  'is  pore 

292 


An  Omo-Pathetic  Opinion 

chest?   My!  ain't  this  baby  blue!   'E'll  'ave 
a  fit  presently!" 

It  was  quite  a  considerable  time  before 
I  could  really  concentrate  the  distracted 
mother's  attention  upon  Johnny's  suffering 
chest,  but  at  last  the  blue  baby  cried  itself 
red,  and  was  duly  fed  and  wrapped  away  in  a 
corner  of  the  big  bed,  and  gradually  the  other 
cleansed  members  of  the  family  accumulated 
round  him.  Then  at  last  it  was  our  turn. 

"And  now,  Mrs.  Williams,  do  tell  me  about 
the  boy's  chest!" 

Mrs.  Williams  immediately  flung  her  damp 
apron  over  her  eyes  and  began  to  cry  distress- 
ingly, and  Johnny,  stirred  to  sympathy,  ran 
to  her  side  and  wept  with  her.  Mother  and 
son  abandoned  themselves  to  grief,  and  I 
almost  despaired  of  ever  hearing  the  real 
facts  about  the  doctor  who  had  pulled  out 
Johnny's  tooth  and  condemned  his  chest. 
But  at  last  the  storm  of  sobs  showed  some 
sign  of  exhaustion,  and  I  waited  on  hopefully 
to  the  end. 

Johnny,  of  course,  was  the  first  to  recover 
his  self-control. 

293 


Gutter-Babies 

"Mummy,  tell  my  Miss  what  the  doctor 
says,"  he  persuaded  her  gently,  with  his  little 
hands  pulling  tenderly  at  her  wet  apron,  and 
bowed  head.  "Mummy,  do  please  tell  my 
Miss;  she  do  want  to  hear  what  the  bloomin' 
doctor  said,  don'tcher,  Miss?" 

I  nodded  earnestly,  and  slowly  the  stricken 
face  of  Johnny's  mother  was  lifted  up  to 
me. 

"Tell  the  lydy  about  pore  little  Johnny!" 
urged  the  sufferer  patiently.  And  at  last  Mrs. 
Williams  began. 

"Yer  see,  Miss,  we  could  n't  get  no  sleep 
fer  Johnny  with  his  'ead.  'E  do  'ave  it  crool, 
yer  know,  Miss;  and  snore,  why  'e  wakes  us 
all  up  if  'e  do  shut  'is  eyes  fer  a  minnit,  so  I 
sez  as  'ow  I'd  better  take  'im  to  the  Omo- 
Pathetic  just  up  the  road  there,  and  you  can 
get  a  free  ticket  for  the  asking,  and  no  wait- 
ing and  all !  So  I  arst  the  doctor  to  be  so  kind 
as  ter  take  'is  tooth  out;  so  he  did,  and  he  give 
'im  a  thorough  good  investigation  all  over 
and  he  says  —  'e  did  reely,  O  dear!  my  pore 
little  Johnny!  'e  did,  Miss,  as  sure  as  Gawd's 
in  'Eaven  'e  did!" 

294 


An  O mo- Pathetic  Opinion 

Of  course  I  knew  it  would  happen.  Just  as 
we  were  within  a  word  of  hearing  the  truth 
about  Special  Johnny's  symptoms,  maternal 
emotion  again  victimized  Mrs.  Williams,  and 
another  burst  of  grief  was  added  to  our  sus- 
pense. But  at  last  the  dreadful  verdict  was 
extracted  from  Johnny's  mother,  and  I  knew 
actually  that  the  kind  doctor  at  the  Homoeo- 
pathic Dispensary,  who  had  a  tender  heart  for 
Gutter-babies  and  did  not  make  mistakes, 
had  said  our  Special  Johnny  was  consumptive. 

It  was  terrible  news;  to  Johnny  himself 
deeply  interesting  and  temporarily  very  bene- 
ficial ;  to  his  mother  it  was  one  of  a  long  pro- 
gramme of  troubles.  Johnny's  "  Dadda"  had 
a  shocking  cough,  and  had  grown  as  weak  as 
a  baby  with  it  this  winter;  Mark  was  tuberc- 
ulous and  for  the  last  year  had  worn  splints, 
or  at  least  something  in  the  nature  of  a  sur- 
gical instrument  called  after  St.  Thomas,  and 
one  of  his  legs  looked  like  a  hairpin,  and  the 
other  like  a  flat-iron.  Phillie  had  adenoids 
and  a  thick  voice,  and  even  the  baby  went 
blue  in  water.  Perhaps,  after  all,  it  was  hard- 
est upon  me.  It  was  a  comfort  at  that 

295 


Gutter-Babies 

moment  to  feel  assured  that  Johnny  at  least 
thought  so. 

"I  knew  you'd  be  terrible  hupset,  Miss,  I 
tol'  the  doctor  so.  'She  thinks  a  wonderful 
lot  of  my  Johnny,'  I  sez  to  'im.  But  praps, 
Miss,  you'd  tell  Father  Tooley  to  speak  to 
'im  to  be  a  good  boy,  seein'  as  'ow  there's 
death  writ  in  'is  face,  and  'e  only  seven,  too! 
And  will  yer  be  so  good  as  ter  give  me  a  letter 
to  the  Dispensary,  Miss?" 

Johnny  overtook  me  on  the  way  home,  and 
pressed  something  into  my  hand  hurriedly. 

"Don'tcher  fret  yerself,  mate,  will  yer?" 
he  said  kindly,  and  disappeared  among  the 
shadows. 

I  opened  the  little  parcel  with  a  heavy 
heart,  pondering  over  the  mysterious  bitter- 
ness of  Guttergarten,  and  found  inside  it, 
carefully  wrapped  in  pink  lint,  a  small  hol- 
low first  tooth. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

The  Boy  in  the  Wood 

THE  Summer  had  passed  and  with  it 
the  glory  of  Guttergarten.  The 
little  pot-gardens  had  long  ago 
yielded  their  harvest  and  been  buried,  with 
only  a  faint  and  uncertain  hope  of  the  resur- 
rection. The  last  sacred  Bonfire  had  been  lit 
to  the  mischievous  memory  of  the  Eternal 
Ideal  of  Treachery,  and  the  last  dainty  little 
Grotto  had  been  wrecked  in  the  rain-swept 
street.  Before  us  was  the  promise  of  winter, 
with  its  hideous  threat  of  struggle  and  suffer- 
ing. The  joyous  open-air  freedom  of  the 
Camp-life  of  the  Gutter-dwellers  was  over 
for  the  season. 

From  this  time  all  domestic  observations 
would  have  to  be  made  through  glass.  The 
thousand  little  homes  of  Guttergarten  would 
be  full  of  human  life  and  discord.  In  time  even 
the  wildest  of  the  little  people  would  take 
refuge  from  the  cruelty  of  a  Gutter-frost,  in 

297 


Gutter-Babies 

night  schools  and  pleasant  evenings,  and  de- 
vote their  enormous  energies  to  conduct 
marks  and  Christmas  carols  and  magic  lan- 
terns, until  the  laughing  Spring  called  to  them 
once  more  from  the  deep  wonderland  of  the 
Gutter-babies'  jungle. 

Blanchie  was  making  the  most  of  her  brief 
intimacy  with  us;  for  we  all  knew  that  with 
the  "Panto  Season"  she  must  go.  Almost 
momentarily  we  waited  for  the  ample  shadow 
of  the  Twins'  Mother  as  it  darkened  the  nar- 
row passage  of  our  open  door. 

Through  the  wild  music  of  the  Gutter- 
babies'  laughter  and  the  confusion  of  Gutter- 
garten  at  play,  we  knew  that  Blanchie  was 
listening  for  the  voice  that  would  call  her 
away  from  us. 

It  came  at  last. 

Somewhere  at  the  other  end  of  nowhere, 
Blanchie  was  wanted  to  play  the  "Boy  in 
the  Wood" 

It  was  very  much  against  her  will  that  she 
left  us.  The  part  was  not  what  she  wanted  at 
all;  she  loved  her  petticoats,  and  laid  them 
aside  with  bitter  regret.  It  was  a  nasty  low 

298 


The  Boy  in  the  Wood 

place,  too ;  she  knew  all  about  it.  Besides,  she 
was  losing  her  taste  for  the  drama,  and  was 
getting  too  long  in  the  legs  for  a  Baby  Won- 
der. But  there  was  no  other  way  of  keeping 
the  foster  family;  of  course  she  must  go.  But 
she  would  be  ever  so  disagreeable  and  make 
them  all  sorry  they  were  born. 

We  let  her  grumble,  and  we  let  her  go; 
there  was  nothing  else  to  do.  We  knew  that 
she  was  an  Art  Nursling  and  not  a  real  Gut- 
ter-baby at  all.  We  knew  that  the  foster 
papa  would  soon  overcome  her  displeasure 
with  a  buckle  and  strap,  and  that  very  soon 
Blanchie  herself  would  be  singing  away  hap- 
pily to  the  boys  in  the  Gallery,  and  be  wild 
with  the  limelight  and  the  tinsel  and  the  non- 
sense of  the  game. 

Of  course  Mrs.  Ball  managed  the  recovery 
of  Blanchie  with  the  usual  daring  and  gra- 
cious skill  of  the  Gutter-lady. 

"Of  course,  Miss,  we  knows  as  'ow  you 
'ave  been  most  kind  to  Blanchie,  and  she  such 
a  trying  child,  too;  I  often  says  as  'ow  one 
can't  be  good  when  she's  around,  for  she 
won't  let  you.  I'm  sure  the  things  I've  said 

299 


Gutter-Babies 

I  did  n't  know  I  could  'ave  dreamed  'em.  But 
of  course,  Miss,  you  see,  Miss,  as  we  both 
know,  she 's  of  an  age  to  be  useful  and  I  dare- 
say you've  got  a  lot  out  of  'er  this  long  time; 
but  of  course  we're  doing  badly,  most  indif- 
ferent just  now,  Miss,  and  I  wish  we  could 
spare  her  a  little  longer,  Miss,  but  we  wants 
'er  ourselves,  now  the  winter  's  comin'  on, 
like.  Of  course,  Miss,  we  don't  expect  no 
wages  for  what  Blanchie  's  done  for  you;  but 
I  daresay,  Miss,  as  'ow she's  earned  'er clothes, 
like,  and  'er  boot  leather!" 

And  so  Blanchie  went  away  and  became 
the  Boy  in  the  Wood. 

It  was  a  hard  winter  in  Guttergarten  and 
the  worst  part  was  to  see  how  hard  it  was  for 
each  other. 

The  Gutter-babies  went  about  cheerfully 
as  long  as  possible  with  blue  snivelling  little 
noses  and  nipped  toes  and  frozen  fingers, 
hidden  under  their  ragged  coats.  It  was  only 
now  and  then  that  one  found  them  cuddled 
up  on  a  doorstep,  crying  bitterly  with  hunger 
and  cold.  The  Soup  Kitchens  were  swarmed, 
and  the  Hunger  Marches  organised.  Goose 

300 


The  Boy  in  the  Wood 

Clubs  were  started,  and  one  by  one  poor  little 
pinched  Christmas  trees  sprang  up  in  the  win- 
dows of  each  Gutter-home. 

The  Gutter-babies  ran  about  the  streets 
singing  of  the  Holy  Child,  and  made  solemn 
pilgrimages  to  the  Gutter  Parson's  Church, 
where  he  had  built  a  little  Grotto  all  to  him- 
self, with  utter  disregard  of  the  Oyster  Sea- 
son, and  filled  it  with  real  candles  and  flowers 
and  the  most  wonderful  dolls  that  had  ever 
been  seen. 

And  the  pain  and  poverty  grew,  and  sick- 
ness fell  upon  the  overcrowded  homes,  scarlet 
and  "dip,"  and  even  smallpox  now  and  then, 
and  one  after  another  developed  consump- 
tion suddenly,  and  all  the  Gutter-babies  had 
toothache  at  once.  Christmas  brought  into 
Guttergarten  sweets  and  crackers  and  won- 
derful shop  windows,  but  it  did  not  bring 
pennies  to  buy  them. 

At  last  the  snow  came!  White  and  thick 
and  soft  and  blessed,  and  Guttergarten  and 
its  misery  lay  buried  beneath  us. 

Then,  men  who  had  never  worked  before 
turned  out  to  the  campaign,  and  shouldered 

301 


Gutter-Babies 

shovel  and  broom,  and  that  morning  in  many 
a  Gutter-home  the  Gutter-babies  were  prom- 
ised bread  before  night. 

With  the  coming  of  the  snow  we  were  all 
able  once  more  to  look  out  upon  Gutter-life 
with  brave  hearts. 

It  was  Special  Johnny  who  recovered  his 
spirits  first.  Flushed  with  triumph  and  the 
excitement  of  victory,  he  danced  in,  bringing 
with  him,  on  his  boots  and  in  the  train  of  his 
long  broom,  nearly  half  the  snow  which  he 
had  been  struggling  to  remove  from  our  front 
doorstep,  and  squatted  down  in  the  kindly 
smile  of  the  fire,  stretching  out  little  red  fingers 
into  the  glow. 

"Are  we  down'arted,  girls?"  he  asked 
cheerfully;  and  I  scorned  the  suggestion  in 
the  correct  way  —  "No,  boys!" 

Then  he  began  to  tell  me  that  the  Boy  in 
the  Wood  had  a  matinee  to-day,  and  Blanchie 
wanted  us  to  go,  and  could  n't  we,  now  the 
snow  had  come?  Without,  I  heard  the  cease- 
less scraping  of  the  snow-sweepers  as  they 
bent  cheerfully  to  their  unaccustomed  labour, 
and  the  shrieks  of  the  maddened  Gutter- 

302 


The  Boy  in  the  Wood 

babies  as  they  hurled  their  furious  missiles 
in  the  battle  of  ice.  In  the  playground  of  the 
Gutter  Castle  a  huge  white  figure  rose  threat- 
eningly among  the  little  wild  people,  like  a 
mighty  Spirit  of  the  Snow,  mocking  at  the 
puny  little  creatures  of  grime  and  dust  who 
had  fashioned  him  with  their  tiny  ambitious 
hands. 

Guttergarten  was  all  fun  and  frolic  and 
wild  ecstatic  life  to-day,  and  I  yielded. 

Out  into  a  white  world  of  snowdrifts  we 
went.  In  the  West,  carriage  wheels  slipped 
on  the  frozen  ground,  and  the  doctors  were 
shaking  their  heads  over  old  ladies  with 
bronchitis.  But  in  Guttergarten  we  knew  that 
the  Gutter  Parson,  as  he  fed  the  starved 
robins  at  his  window-ledge,  looked  out  across 
the  transformed  acres  of  his  little  kingdom 
and  blessed  the  snow  of  Heaven. 

It  was  a  long  journey  that  we  made  in 
quest  of  the  Boy  in  the  Wood.  But  at  last  we 
stood  hesitatingly  outside  a  vulgar  little  hall, 
in  a  squalid  street. 

"Shall  us  go  on?"  asked  Johnny,  suddenly 
stricken  with  alarm. 

303 


Gutter-Babies 

But  a  woman  with  a  painted  face  and  yel- 
low hair  stuck  her  head  out  upon  us  suddenly, 
and  asked  our  business. 

We  told  her  we  were  Blanchie's  friends  and 
had  come  to  see  her  greatest  success.  The 
woman  eyed  us  suspiciously  and  went  away 
to  fetch  the  manager. 

In  another  moment  we  were  in  the  tremend- 
ous presence  of  Mr.  Jacobwitz,  to  whom 
Blanchie  owed  the  brilliant  programme  of  her 
dramatic  career. 

"You've  come  to  see  the  lee  tie  lady?"  he 
asked  agreeably.  "Well,  she  is  most  clever 
leetle  lady,  and  most  well  worth  the  honour 
of  your  visit!" 

He  rubbed  his  jewelled  hands  together, 
and  smiled  upon  us  so  graciously,  and  bent 
his  well-oiled,  perfumed  head  so  gallantly 
before  us,  that  it  seemed  but  a  little  thing  to 
pay  ten  bob  for  the  diminutive  velvet-cush- 
ioned and  unswept  little  box  in  which  he 
finally  left  us  to  ourselves. 

But  Johnny  did  not  like  him  very  well. 

"Ain't  'e  an  ugly  devil?  I'd  like  to  plant 
my  number  seven  boot  in  the  middle  of  'im  I" 

304 


The  Boy  in  the  Wood 

I  was  relieved  when  he  left  us,  and  Johnny's 
threat  became  impracticable. 

For  what  seemed  in  the  delusion  of  Time 
like  the  Eternal  Hour,  Johnny  and  I  waited 
patiently  before  that  dreary  curtain,  until 
we  knew  by  heart  every  line  and  distortion 
of  its  painted  horrors.  Upon  our  sickened 
brains  was  nailed  for  ever  the  frightful  gross- 
ness  of  that  Venus  as  she  paddled  idly  up  a 
limpid  stream,  where  the  lilies  grew  waste- 
fully  like  weeds,  and  deformed  Amorini 
bathed  beside  her.  From  time  to  time  the 
"ugly  devil"  returned,  to  cheer  us  awhile 
with  his  disgusting  attentions. 

"Matinees  aren't  much  go  'ere!"  he  told 
us;  "we  can't  get  the  people  till  the  night 
'ouse  and  then  we're  full!"  He  spread  his 
jewelled  hands  tenderly  over  the  imaginary 
night  house,  as  we  looked  round  at  the  for- 
lorn benches  where  scarcely  a  dozen  people 
had  straggled  in. 

But  at  last,  at  what  seemed  to  be  the  other 
end  of  time  altogether,  the  curtain  rose  upon 
the  Boy  in  the  Wood.  The  scene  appeared 
to  be  the  village  school,  where  there  must 

305 


Gutter-Babies 

have  been  a  breaking-up  concert,  for  each  of 
the  pupils  was  made  to  go  through  the  ex- 
ceedingly painful  exercise  of  a  vocal  solo. 
Most  of  them,  quite  deservedly,  got  thor- 
oughly birched  afterwards,  which  drew  peals 
of  applause  from  Johnny. 

It  was  the  Babes'  turn. 

With  a  quaint  little  pompous  gesture  and 
a  glance  of  boundless  affection  at  our  box, 
Blanchie  took  the  front  of  the  stage,  with  a 
very  fat  and  simpering  little  girl  clinging  to 
her  hand.  The  duet  began  and  we  heard 
Blanchie's  voice,  the  shrill  sweet  tones  of  the 
Gutter-baby  we  knew,  singing  nonsense  to 
empty  benches,  when  she  ought  to  have  been 
out  in  the  courtyard  of  the  Gutter  Castle, 
dancing  round  the  Man  of  Snow. 

I  do  not  know  if  the  Nursling  was  really  a 
genius,  but  the  little  lady  of  the  vulgar  music 
hall  played  for  us  that  afternoon  in  an  empty 
house  beside  a  stolid  simpering  little  com- 
panion, and  to  the  music  of  an  untuned  piano, 
the  immortal  history  of  the  lost  children  with 
a  mystical  sympathy  and  tenderness  which 
could  not  have  been  matched. 

306 


The  Boy  in  the  Wood 

We  saw  in  that  afternoon  the  waste  of 
Guttergarten. 

The  Art  Nursling  sang  to  an  empty  house, 
and  Johnny  was  labelled  "Special."  Every 
day  into  the  tangle  of  circumstance  lost  child- 
ren hurried  away  from  their  expectations, 
and  their  supreme  discovery  was  the  falling 
leaf,  which  in  its  curious  symbolism  has 
always  been  so  persistently  opportune  in  the 
Psychic  Venture.  It  was  in  a  state  of  quite 
absurd  emotion  that  I  retired  to  the  dressing- 
room  and  found  Blanchie  sitting  opposite  to 
a  large  Teddy  Bear  eating  pease  pudding  out 
of  a  newspaper. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

The  Jest  of  Gutter garten 

IT  is  not  possible  for  anyone  without  a 
sense  of  humour  to  stay  very  long  in 
Guttergarten.  Of  course  such  defective 
persons  do  stumble  frequently  into  the  heart 
of  the  Gutter-dwellers,  and  provoke  the  suf- 
ferings of  martyrdom  in  their  frenzied  en- 
deavours to  escape  unobserved.  But  there  is 
no  abiding-place  for  them  in  the  beloved 
country,  and  they  are  soon  condemned  to  a 
perpetual  exile. 

Here,  in  the  famine-stricken,  horror-haunted 
atmosphere  of  the  little  wild  people's  home 
was  born  sometime  the  peevish  genius  of 
Laughter,  and  has  incarnated  itself  in  the 
sad-eyed  echo  of  a  Gutter-baby's  smile.  But 
there  are  a  great  many  people  who  cannot 
endure  the  exquisite  pathos  of  the  Gutter 
Jest,  and  fly  in  terror  from  the  stinging  sweet- 
ness of  Special  Johnny's  humour. 

Into  our  midst,  one  distractingly  busy  sea- 
308 


The  Jest  of  Guttergarten 

son,  came  an  eager  young  enthusiast,  brim- 
ming with  immaturity  and  zeal  and  the  self- 
importance  of  the  recent  discovery  of  his  own 
mind. 

It  was  an  unusually  hard  winter.  The  Gut- 
ter-babies were  being  swept  from  us  in  num- 
bers by  the  miscroscopic  demons  of  measles 
and  "scarlet."  The  out-of-work  problem 
grinned  defiance  at  our  feeble  efforts  to  grap- 
ple with  its  gigantic  proportions.  All  round 
us  the  little  homes  of  Guttergarten  were  col- 
lapsing and  the  broken  hearts  of  Gutter- 
garten, twisted  in  hysterics,  shrieked  to  us  in 
bitter  jest  and  laughing  tears. 

One  or  two  of  our  workers  had  broken  down 
under  the  strain  and  thrown  aside  the  threads 
of  their  individual  enterprise  and  energy  for 
us  to  gather  up.  The  Gutter  Parson  was  lying 
on  his  back  in  the  Fever  Hospital  under  a 
visitation  of  "  Dith,"  from  which  after  months 
of  anxiety,  he  came  back  to  us,  only  that  we 
might  have  the  exquisite  torture  of  watching 
him  die. 

I  mention  these  things  in  the  hope  that 
they  may  perhaps  offer  some  slight  apology 

309 


Gutter-Babies 

for  the  callous  indifference  with  which  we 
sent  this  raw  adventurer  to  his  doom. 

With  tender  courtesy  Guttergarten  sent  its 
own  message  of  warning  to  us,  but  we  were 
too  busy  to  heed. 

"Some  of  them  new  'ands  of  yours  are  very 
young,  ain't  they?"  Mrs.  Kirby  suggested 
delicately,  after  a  visit  from  the  "Boy." 

"'Ullow,  Mister!"  squealed  the  little  cynic 
of  Guttergarten,  " where 's  yer  beard?" 

But  we  were  all  absorbed  in  the  Gutter- 
Vision. 

And  we  had  not  the  least  idea  that  the 
Jester  had  entered  into  argument  with  us. 

"Shall  we  send  someone  else  to  collect  your 
'Provident'?"  we  suggested  to  Mrs.  Kirby. 

"Ho,  no!  by  no  means,  certainly  not! 
Young  people  'as  to  be  learned,  in  course. 
Any'ow,  'is  years  is  a  thing  'e  ain't  quite 
responsible  for,  and  a  thing  as  'e'll  grow  out 
of,  too.  But  whatever  is  the  young  feller's 
mother  about,  that  she  don't  put  'e  into  some- 
think,  'stead  of  wasting  'is  time  a-'angin* 
round  'ere  with  no  think  to  do?  I  reckon  she 
did  ought  to  be  spoke  to." 

310 


//  was  an  unusually  hard  winter 


The  Jest  of  Guttergarten 

In  the  Club  Room  on  Saturday  night  Dicky 
tugged  ferociously  at  his  pipe  and  confided  to 
my  careless  ear,  "If  that  kid  comes  a-saucin' 
me  about  'is  thrift  notions,  and  'is  bloomin' 
edecation  bobbery,  I  don't  mind  tellin'  you, 
Miss,  I'll  sort 'im!" 

A  few  splendid   failures,   and   perhaps  a 

i 

black  eye  or  so,  would  of  course  have  very 
soon  settled  the  balance  of  the  Boy's  reputa- 
tion, only  unfortunately  that  observant  semi- 
tragic  imp  of  Gutter-humour  had  discovered, 
while  we  were  dreaming,  that  an  entire  ab- 
sence of  this  sixth  sense  had  fatally  arrested 
the  development  of  the  young  enthusiast, 
and  made  it  impossible  for  him  ever  to  be  one 
of  us  in  the  dreadful  jest  of  Guttergarten. 

This  fact  was  suddenly  forced  upon  us  with 
overwhelming  vehemence  by  the  Boy  himself. 

It  was  one  wet  sloppy  miserable  evening, 
just  before  Christmas,  that  two  or  three  of  us, 
driven  in  by  the  rain,  assembled  at  the  Boy's 
diggings  and  found  him  in  despair. 

No  one  ever  dares  tamper  with  despair  in 
Guttergarten.  That  is  a  luxury  that  can  only 
be  indulged  in  within  the  limits  of  respecta- 

3" 


Gutter-Babies 

bility  and  convention.  Despair,  set  in  the 
throne  of  Guttergarten,  would  run  mad,  in- 
deed. If  we  could  once  forget  to  play  in  the 
heart  of  horror,  or  lose  for  one  instant  the 
heroic  humour  of  Puck  in  this  home  of  devils, 
the  situation  would  be  hopeless.  Bleeding 
hearts  would  be  trampled  in  the  dust  and  the 
corpses  of  the  Gutter-lovers  would  swing 
from  every  lamp-light  in  Guttergarten. 

There  is  safety  only  in  foolishness,  and 
laughter  is  the  only  music  to  which  the  Gut- 
ter-dwellers will  dance  for  us.  We  must  laugh 
always,  lest  we  should  desert  the  awful  reality 
of  the  jest. 

The  young  doctor  laughs  cheerfully,  while 
he  ministers  to  some  wretched  woman  in  her 
agony;  and  when  the  bed  breaks  suddenly 
down  under  her,  laughs  still  while  he  supports 
it  on  his  knee,  and  continues  his  work  without 
interruption. 

On  Saturday  night  when  the  mother  of  a 
Gutter-home  is  waiting,  all  ready  dressed  for 
the  weekly  shopping,  until  Daddy  chooses  to 
turn  in  with  the  money,  the  little  Gutter- 
baby,  sent  up  the  road  to  meet  him,  splits  his 

312 


The  Jest  of  Guttergarten 

sides  with  the  tremendous  humour  of  the 
jest,  as  he  guides  his  bewildered  parent  on  his 
homeward  way,  bland  and  gentle,  but  with 
unsteady  gait  and  empty  pockets. 

"There's  Mummy  waitin'  this  'alf-'our  for 
the  shoppin'  and  'e  's  bin  and  busted  every 
bloomin'  farthin'.  Look  at  'is  pockets!"  cries 
the  delighted  Johnny,  with  a  happy  grin  on 
his  face  and  in  his  heart  a  haunting  fear  of 
to-morrow's  famine. 

And  this  was  the  whole  failure  of  the 
Boy,  that  he  could  not  laugh.  It  was  his 
only  sin,  but  it  banished  him  from  the  garden 
of  the  Gutter.  He  was  sitting  in  an  attitude 
of  the  profoundest  melancholy,  with  his  head 
buried  in  his  helpless  hands,  because  he  had 
found  a  family  living  on  twelve  shillings  a  week ! 

It  was  the  woman  who  earned  it,  and  three 
of  the  children  belonged  to  her;  the  man  and 
another  child  did  not,  but  she  could  not  give 
them  up  because,  although  she  had  paid  the 
rent  for  a  whole  year  all  by  herself,  the  furni- 
ture was  still  his. 

- "  I  cannot  see  that  it 's  funny! "  moaned  the 
Boy. 

313 


Gutter-Babies 

It  was  the  eldest  daughter  of  the  family, 
a  tired,  worried  person  of  eight  years  old,  who 
had  really  stirred  his  emotions.  She  had  come 
in  during  his  visit  with  a  heavy  brother  in  her 
arms,  and  the  little  sister  and  the  tiresome 
foster  brother  clinging  to  her  skirts. 

"Ef  yer  reely  wanted  to  'elp  us,  Mister, 
yer  might  tike  that  born  byby  away.  Mother 
did  n't  ought  to  'ave  bought  it  when  us  is  so 
dreadful  poor!" 

''  'Old  yer  tongue,  yer  bad  gal ! "  scolded  the 
woman  on  the  bed.  "Yer  must  please  'scuse 
'er,  Sir.  'Er  ain't  no  understandin'  of  sich 
things." 

"  Did  n't  yer  tell  me  it  costed  twenty 
shillin'?"  went  on  the  unabashed  little  philo- 
sopher. "It'd  be  a  sight  better  to  'ave 
bought  us  all  boots.  Could  n't  yer  tike  it 
'ome  to  pass  the  evenin's  like,  Mister?" 

We  were  all  anxious  to  lift  the  crushing 
weight  of  Guttergarten  and  its  wrongs  and 
woes  from  the  Boy's  slender  shoulders,  but 
nothing  could  have  made  him  smile  just 
then. 

While  we  lingered,  a  loud  knock  at  the  door 
314 


The  Jest  of  Guttergarten 

summoned  him  away  and  we  heard  him  dis- 
cussing the  question  of  dinners  with  a  little 
girl  of  his  acquaintance. 

"Please,  Sir,  ain't  yer  got  no  tickets  ter 
give  away?" 

"Have  n't  you  had  any  dinner  to-day,  you 
poor  little  dear?" 

The  sharp  senses  of  the  Gutter-baby  de- 
tected the  latent  sympathy  in  those  kindly 
tones  and  at  once  resolved  that  it  was  worth 
while  to  improve  the  occasion  and  "lay  it  on 
thick."  But  after  all,  the  naked  truth  was 
quite  enough. 

"Gawd,  no,  Sir!  Us  don't  'ave  dinner  of  a 
Saturday;  we  waits  for  our  bellyful  of  a 
Sunday!" 

"But  if  I  gave  you  a  dinner  on  Saturday, 
you  would  have  none  on  Monday!"  said  the 
Boy's  hopeless  voice. 

''Oh,  yus,  us  would,  sir;  us  'aves  a  little  bit 
left  of  a  Monday.  'Course,  us  don't  spex  din- 
ner all  the  rest  of  the  week.  'T  ain't  likely, 
with  my  Daddy's  money!" 

We  guessed  that  at  this  point  a  shilling 
changed  hands  on  the  doorstep. 

315 


Gutter-Babies 

"If  you  come  to  me  on  Tuesday,  I'll  see 
that  you  have  a  dinner,"  promised  the  young 
philanthropist,  with  his  curly  head  still  sym- 
pathetically thrust  round  the  closing  door. 

"Not  me,  thanks,  Mister!"  shouted  the 
Gutter-baby  from  the  street.  "  None  of  them 
dirty  soup-kitchen  dinners  fer  me!  My  fish 
was  all  cold  this  mornin' !  Me  and  my  pal,  us 
pitched  it  all  under  the  table!" 

"I  think  they  might  serve  the  poor  little 
beggars  better,  don't  you?"  remarked  the 
Boy  sadly,  as  he  joined  us.  "I  shall  have  to 
look  into  the  matter.  I  'm  sure  cold  fish  must 
be  most  indigestible  for  their  little  stomachs ! " 
And  he  sat  down  with  a  tired  sigh  to  his  own 
cold  tea. 

Of  course  by  this  time  we  had  all  discovered 
the  Boy's  failing,  and  could  have  easily  fore- 
told the  end.  But  as  it  happened,  he  lingered 
on  amongst  us  for  a  little  time.  But  he  never 
learnt  to  laugh,  even  when  the  Gutter  did  its 
worst  upon  his  sympathetic  temperament. 

It  was  Dicky  at  last  who  settled  him,  as  he 
had  always  said  he  would. 

Dicky,  as  we  all  knew,  loved  his  glass  on 


The  Jest  of  Guttergarten 

Saturday  night.  Nobody  else  would  have 
thought  of  listening  to  Dicky,  when  tumbling 
home  upon  one  occasion  he  encountered 
the  Boy,  and  at  once  began  a  long  in- 
coherent and  proportionately  pitiful  story 
of  his  own  poverty-stricken  and  deserving 
state. 

The  Boy  emptied  his  pockets  at  once,  and 
went  home  glowing  with  that  satisfaction  of 
the  indiscriminate  benefactor  which  is  a  far 
more  blessed  state  than  any  of  the  Gutter- 
lovers  can  hope  to  enjoy.  But  later  on  there 
came  to  him  some  vague  appreciation  of 
Dicky's  deceptive  statements  and  he  hastened 
forth  to  make  himself  acquainted  with  the 
real  situation. 

Dicky  had  lied  bravely  and  was  entirely 
unable  to  account  for  his  extraordinary  state- 
ments. He  seemed  also  to  be  a  good  deal 
more  the  worse  for  drink. 

"I'm  ver*  much  afraid,  me  lad,  as  'ow 
you 've  bin  'ad!"  he  said,  with  an  heroic  effort 
at  speech. 

But  the  Boy,  who  had  never  learnt  to  laugh, 
was  furious.  In  his  brief  and  narrow  experi- 

317 


Gutter-Babies 

ence  the  Jest  had  never  hit  him  so  hardly 
before.  For  some  time  he  had  been  drawing 
very  near  to  the  limit  of  Guttergarten.  With 
his  usual  lack  of  humour  he  had  persistently 
starved  and  tortured  himself  with  his  gener- 
osity until  the  Gutter-dwellers  had  relieved 
him  of  almost  the  bare  means  of  existence. 
He  was  quite  unfit  to  remain  calm  under  the 
insolent  buffoonery  of  this  Gutter-trick.  He 
did  not  stop  for  the  sympathy  or  caution  of 
any  of  his  veteran  friends,  but  hurried 
straight  into  that  deadliest  pitfall  of  Gutter- 
garten, the  Police  Court,  and  with  childish 
pride  and  insane  satisfaction  he  got  out  a 
summons  against  Dicky. 

Dicky's  defence  was  that  "the  bloody 
gentleman  oughter  'ave  known  'e  was  boozed ! ' ' 

But  the  incident  closed  the  career  of  the 
Boy.  We  parted  from  him  with  real  sorrow; 
for  he  had  grown  dear  to  some  of  us,  and 
young  things  seldom  pass  through  Gutter- 
garten. Yet,  as  we  waved  our  hands  to  his 
retreating  figure  across  the  Borderland  of  the 
beloved  country,  it  was  with  a  sigh  of  con- 
scious relief  that  we  saw  him  go.  And  we 


The  Jest  of  Guttergarten 

turned  back  into  the  beckoning  heart  of  our 
prison  home  with  a  new  stern  sense  of  the 
responsibility  which  rests  upon  those  who  are 
still  permitted  to  take  their  part  in  the  great 
and  terrible  Jest. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

Sick  Gutter-Babies 

1DO  feel  mis'able creature! "  said  Blanchie 
dismally,  as  she  dropped  into  a  weary 
little  bundle  on  the  hearth-rug,  while 
Johnny  busied  himself  in  brewing  hot  coffee 
for  her. 

Certainly  she  looked  it.  Two  tired  and 
unnaturally  bright  eyes  looked  out  at  me  from 
a  little  grey  and  haggard  face  with  an  almost 
imperative  appeal  for  human  sympathy. 

" Me  bones  ache!"  she  explained  patiently. 

It  was  the  weighty  secret  which  she  had 
kept  hidden  away  in  her  brave  little  heart 
through  so  many  late  nights  and  tedious 
performances. 

"  I  ain't  no  spirit  left  inside  of  me  to  kick. 
I'm  fair  done,  Miss,  I  am!" 

"Thank  Gawd  I  ain't  made  fer  no  dancin' ! ' ' 
murmured  Johnny  with  a  sigh  of  pious  grati- 
tude; "ain't  it  a  life,  though!" 

"Couldn't  you  get  a  holiday,  kid?"  I 
320 


Sick  Gutter-Babies 

asked,  with  only  a  very  faint  suggestion  of 
hopefulness. 

"Gawd,  no,  Miss!  We  owes  a  quarter's 
rent  now  and  Alf  's  Sunday  boots  in  pawn  and 
all.  There  ain't  no  peace  for  such  as  me,  not 
in  this  world." 

"Well,  come  up  to  the  Dispensary,  then, 
and  get  a  tonic.  We  can  go  up  into  the  Child- 
ren's Ward  afterwards  and  say  good- night 
to  Ivy!" 

Ivy  was  the  elder  Lizzie's  seventh  daughter, 
a  dear  person,  who  had  been  one  of  our  fre- 
quent visitors  until  a  sudden  deadly  illness 
had  prostrated  her  in  a  little  white  bed  in  the 
Dispensary  Ward. 

"I  never  thought  such  a  thing  could  'ave 
'appened,  not  to  our  Ivy,"  the  elder  Lizzie 
had  whined;  "'er's  always  been  such  a  rare 
one  to  enjoy  'erself,  and  now  she  won't  never 
run  again.  Ain't  it  crool  for  a  pore  mother 
to  think  of?  Where 's  the  good  Gawd  to  let 
such  things  be  to  a  pore  little  innercent 
lamb!" 

I  cannot  say  that  the  sudden  collapse  of 
Gutter-baby  Ivy  ever  seemed  a  thing  to  cause 

321 


Gutter-Babies 

astonishment  to  those  who  knew  the  history 
of  her  brief  Gutter-career. 

During  her  extreme  youth  Lizzie  had  had 
a  trick  of  leaving  her  tied  securely  into  the 
perambulator  while  she  went  off  to  her  day's 
work  in  the  wash-house. 

No  day  is  very  long  to  a  Gutter-baby  of 
only  a  few  months'  experience.  There  are  so 
many  things  to  learn  about  and  consider, 
and  everything  in  this  new  and  exciting  world 
is  worthy  of  the  gravest  attention.  No  won- 
der that  a  baby  has  to  wake  up  so  very  early 
each  morning,  while  his  parents  are  still  sleep- 
ing through  the  precious  hours  of  the  dawn- 
ing day. 

It  is  all  very  well  for  them  to  waste  so  much 
time,  but  Baby  is  a  tremendously  busy  per- 
son himself.  There  are  so  many  strange  new 
problems  to  be  puzzled  out,  so  many  wonder- 
ful powers  to  be  developed  in  his  own  amaz- 
ingly interesting  little  body. 

One  day,  when  he  was  least  expecting  any- 
thing of  the  sort,  he  suddenly  discovered  the 
tremendous  fact  that  the  fat  little  fist  which 
had  always  puzzled  him  was  good  to  eat. 

322 


Sick  Gutter-Babies 

Perhaps  this  very  day,  that  was  dawning  so 
beautifully  while  his  sluggard  family  slept 
on  heedlessly,  held  some  new  discovery  for 
him;  the  sudden  use  of  his  shaky  little  legs  or 
the  first  inarticulate  gymnastics  of  speech. 

And  so  it  was  that,  while  the  elder  Lizzie 
patiently  pursued  her  occupations,  the  sev- 
enth baby,  tied  up  in  the  perambulator  on  the 
doorsteps  of  the  Gutter  Castle,  watched  with 
eager  eyes  the  progress  of  the  busy  world 
above  the  rim  of  its  narrow  prison. 
I  It  saw  the  wide  sweep  of  the  Gutter-sky, 
as  changeful  and  uncertain  as  the  Gutter-life 
below  it;  grey  sometimes,  and  peopled  with 
shadowy  forms,  chasing  each  other  like  cloud- 
babies  through  the  air;  and  often  blue  and 
dazzling,  so  that  no  Gutter-baby  could  look 
at  it;  but  it  was  warm  to  lie  with  blinded  eyes 
in  such  a  smile.  On  those  days  one  forgot  to 
cry  for  the  elder  Lizzie's  caresses.  Now  and 
then,  when  the  day  was  much  longer  than 
usual,  and  a  Gutter-baby's  hungry  weeping 
grew  weaker  and  weaker  as  the  shadows 
hemmed  in  its  narrow  world,  small  bright 
fires  shot  up  in  the  black  sky,  an  immense 

323 


Gutter-Babies 

discovery  never  to  be  forgotten  through  the 
whole  of  a  Gutter-baby's  surprising  experi- 
ence. 

The  seventh  baby  saw,  too,  the  window  of 
our  little  home,  and  learnt  in  the  course  of 
time  to  watch  for  the  sight  of  one  human  face 
there,  which  often  smiled  down  upon  it,  until, 
as  the  months  flew  by  and  new  powers  came 
to  the  little  prisoner,  it  learnt  one  day  to 
wave  back  a  tiny  hand  of  encouragement. 

One  day  the  elder  Lizzie  was  sent  for  in 
a  great  hurry. 

"'Ere,  Mrs.  Thingummy,  you  come  along 
quick!  your  baby's  strangled  'isself  to  death! 
You'll  ketch  it,  —  not  'arf!" 

The  seventh  baby  had  at  last  decided  that 
the  narrow  circumference  of  a  perambulator 
was  an  absurdly  limited  environment  for  its 
natural  development,  and  in  its  effort  to  toss 
itself  into  a  wider  sphere  of  action  in  the  great 
world  beyond,  it  had  got  into  serious  diffi- 
culty among  the  strings  with  which  the  elder 
Lizzie  had  so  securely  bound  the  little  body  in 
captivity. 

From  the  window  opposite  the  friendly 
324 


Sick  Gutter-Babies 

human  face  with  its  familiar  expression  of 
sympathy  had  witnessed  the  catastrophe. 
But  at  that  precise  moment  Topsy  had  ap- 
peared in  the  entrance  of  the  Gutter  Castle 
on  her  way  back  to  the  factory.  She  seemed 
to  be  the  chosen  understudy  of  the  Gutter- 
baby's  angel,  to  effect  her  preservation  in  this 
crisis  of  extreme  peril,  and  the  face  behind  the 
window  looked  on  with  expectant  relief.  But 
in  the  mind  of  Topsy  arose  a  hideous  and 
rapid  conflict.  This  was  the  opportunity  of 
the  little  woman  grinding  at  the  mill,  whom 
the  shock  of  circumstance  had  so  cruelly 
deprived  of  an  adored  brother  and  a  faithless 
pal.  It  was  clear  that  the  elder  Lizzie's  sev- 
enth baby  was  in  a  position  that  would  soon 
bring  great  scandal  upon  the  home  of  the 
Lizzies.  Doubtless  the  deeply  respected  fam- 
ily of  Topsy  would  hesitate  to  receive  the 
daughter  of  a  child  murderer  in  their  midst. 
To  the  bitter  and  defrauded  heart  of  lonely 
woman,  such  a  complete  and  effectual  re- 
venge must  have  been  a  subtle  temptation. 
For  an  instant  the  face  behind  the  window 
wore  an  expression  of  the  most  intense 

325 


Gutter-Babies 

anxiety.  For  it  literally  seemed  as  if  the  fate 
of  the  Gutter-baby  Ivy  was  swinging  in  the 
balance.  But  quite  suddenly  the  helpless 
appeal  of  that  tiny  pitiful  bundle  of  life,  with 
its  dying  eyes  turned  upwards  in  the  last 
agony,  and  its  wee  face  discoloured  with 
frenzied  contortions,  smote  the  maternal 
heart  of  Topsy's  budding  womanhood,  and  I 
knew  that  the  elder  Lizzie's  seventh  baby 
would  be  spared  to  her,  in  spite  of  gross 
neglect  and  careless  cruelty. 

Glancing  up  at  my  window,  with  sudden 
self-consciousness,  I  perceived  that  Topsy 
became  aware  with  evident  pleasure  that  her 
deed  would  not  be  without  a  witness.  The 
forlorn  and  weary  little  woman,  who  had  till 
now  been  so  insignificant  an  individual  among 
the  tired  overworked  ones  of  the  earth,  had 
greatness  at  this  moment  thrust  upon  her. 
Henceforth  she  should  be  counted  as  one  of 
the  heroes  of  the  Gutter,  for  she  was  to  effect 
that  tremendous  thing  over  which  all  the 
perplexed  wisdom  of  the  age  has  been  so  busy 
and  so  conspicuously  unsuccessful  —  the  pro- 
longing of  a  Gutter-baby's  life.  In  a  short 

326 


Sick  Gutter-Babies 

time  the  elder  Lizzie  arrived  on  the  scene. 
She  would  have  come  sooner  and  in  a  more 
helpful  condition,  had  she  not  been  drawn 
into  the  "  Blue  Star"  on  the  way  by  a  sympa- 
thetic friend,  who  advised  a  little  "pick-me- 
up"  to  steady  her  nerves  for  the  approaching 
tragedy  of  the  seventh  baby's  inquest. 

"Wot  they  been  doin'  to  mother's  lamb?" 
she  demanded  unsteadily,  gathering  an  ex- 
hausted infant  to  her  thin  bosom.  "Ain't  it 
'ard  that  yer  Daddy  can't  mind  yer  while  I 
'as  to  leave  the  'ome?" 

Still  muttering  her  mingled  soothings  and 
curses,  she  stumbled  up  the  stairs  of  the  Gut- 
ter Castle  and  rudely  disturbed  the  peaceful 
slumbers  of  the  seventh  baby's  father. 

"Yer  bleedin'  murderer!"  she  addressed 
him;  "yer  'ave  done  for  our  Ivy,  with  yer 
drunken  ways!  'Ere's  'er  pore  corpse  cold  in 
me  arms.  Take  it  from  me  broken  mother's 
'art!" 

As  she  reeled  before  the  man's  dizzy  gaze, 
suddenly  the  little  body  of  Gutter-baby  Ivy 
sped  through  the  air  in  his  direction.  It  was 
not  his  fault  that  he  failed  to  catch  it,  in  its 

327 


Gutter-Babies 

rapid  and  unexpected  flight.  He  was  but  half- 
awake  after  all.  Halfway  between  them  the 
corpse  of  the  seventh  baby  fell  with  a  hideous 
thud  upon  the  floor  and  immediately  began  to 
wail  loudly. 

This  episode  in  the  early  history  of  Gutter- 
baby  Ivy  had  of  course  passed  entirely  into 
oblivion.  But  now,  five  years  later,  a  small 
eager-eyed  and  persistently  chattering  little 
creature  lay  on  her  back  in  the  bed  called 
"Mary  Martineau"  in  the  Children's  Dis- 
pensary. So  Blanchie  and  Special  Johnny 
and  I  would  go  and  say  good-night  to  her 
when  we  had  finished  our  business  in  the  doc- 
tor's consulting  den  below. 

The  waiting-room  was  overflowing  with 
human  life  and  the  battle  of  many  microbes. 
There  were  measly  Gutter-babies  there  and 
Gutter-babies  with  toothache  and  sore  throats 
and  every  other  form  of  suffering  which  the 
flesh  of  a  Gutter-baby  is  heir  to.  One  very 
young  Gutter-baby  in  its  mother's  arms  had 
excited  the  sympathetic  attention  of  every 
patient  in  those  long  lines  of  unsightly  suffer- 
ing humanity,  as  they  gazed  critically  on  each 
328 


Sick  Gutter-Babies 

other's  symptoms  and  discoursed  in  detail 
upon  their  own. 

"Ain't  'e  a  pore  little  starveling!  Just  skin 
and  bone  'e  is!  Thank  Gawd,  I  never  starved 
none  o'  mine  to  death,  though  no  one 's  'ad  a 
worser  struggle  with  a  'ome  nor  me!" 

"  My,  ain't  that  a  sight  to  shame  a  woman! 
Lord  love  us,  wot  a  pore  little  crittur!" 

Many  such  bitter  criticisms,  accompanied 
by  scathing  glances  of  shocked  interest,  the 
mother  of  the  starveling  had  to  endure  while 
she  waited  anxiously  for  the  little  door  at  the 
end  of  the  room  to  open  and  admit  her  to 
the  heavy  atmosphere  of  the  consulting-den 
where  the  doctor  worked  his  magic  charms. 

"Yer  don't  none  of  you  know  as  'ow  I'm 
placed,  else  yer  would  n't  talk  so!"  declared 
the  poor  mother  piteously.  "Gawd  in  'eaven 
knows  as  'ow  I  've  done  the  best  I  could  for 
this  'ere  pore  little  sufferer  ever  since  'e  was 
born.  Why,  'e  'as  the  same  as  we  do,  but  so 
sure  as  'e  'as  it,  so  'e  ups  it.  And  I  've  tried 
every  food  in  Gawd's  creation,  and  to  show 
as  'ow  I  speaks  the  truth  —  and  Gawd  in 
'eaven  knows  I  'd  never  tell  a  lie  with  me  baby 
329 


Gutter-Babies 

dyin'  by  inches  on  me  breast  —  I  Ve  brought 
all  the  tins  in  this  'ere  bag  to  prove  it!" 

At  this  point  Blanchie  returned  with  a  huge 
bottle  of  cod-liver  oil,  and  we  left  the  stormy 
scene  of  the  waiting-room  for  the  peaceful  and 
pathetic  atmosphere  of  the  Children's  Ward. 

"We're  all  in  a  muddle,  Miss!"  the  cheer- 
ful Nurse  greeted  us;  "it's  just  bed-time, 
and  the  babies  are  being  put  to  bed." 

A  piercing  yell  from  behind  a  screen  at  the 
far  end  of  the  Ward  reached  us.  It  was  Baby 
Billy  having  his  bath. 

In  the  middle  of  a  row  of  little  white  cots, 
each  containing  its  own  Gutter-baby  with  a 
bright  warm  red  jacket  and  a  clean  and  smil- 
ing face,  sat  Ivy,  serene  and  radiant,  ready  to 
receive  her  guests  with  perfect  dignity  and 
composure. 

"'Ullo!"  said  Johnny. 

"Wot  cheer!"  answered  Ivy. 

"Do  you  like  bein'  'ere?"  asked  the  Art 
Nursling  kindly. 

"Not  'arf  I  don't!"  said  Gutter-baby  Ivy. 
"  It's  warm  in  'ere,  't  ain't  always  warm  out- 
side!" 

330 


Sick  Gutter-Babies 

"  Is  that  why  yer  likes  it,  then?  "  suggested 
Special  Johnny. 

"Naow,"  said  the  seventh  baby  firmly; 
"wotcher  think?  We  'as  dinner  in  'ere  every 
day!"  She  let  the  tremendous  fact  soak  into 
our  minds  gradually,  and  then  startled  us 
with  a  yet  more  astonishing  statement,  "We 
'as  supper,  too;  I'm  just  waitin'  fer  my  sup- 
per this  very  minnit ! " 

"What  time  do  you  have  supper,  Ivy?" 

"Seven,"  announced  the  small  epicure  with 
a  smile  of  gluttonous  anticipation  in  her  wide 
blue  eyes. 

"Well,  it's  only  half-past  five  now,"  we 
assured  her. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Ivy;  "a  hour  or  so  passes 
soon  when  you've  got  somethin'  to  look  for- 
ward to!" 

"I'll  tell  you  a  story!"  began  the  Art 
Nursling;  "it'll  hearten  yer  up  a  bit!  Now, 
where  are  yer  toes  got  to.  This  little  pig  — " 

"Oh,  no,  'e  never  now,  I  used  to  believe 
that  when  I  was  your  age!"  interrupted  the 
sick  Gutter-baby  firmly. 

All  round  us  the  little  invalids  were  being 


Gutter-Babies 

tidied  up  for  the  night ;  busy  nurses  were  hur- 
rying from  one  bedside  to  another  and  Baby 
Billy  had  emerged  from  behind  the  screen  and 
was  recovering  his  temper  over  a  bottle.  It 
seemed  as  if  our  visit  must  soon  draw  to  a 
close. 

"Perhaps  we  had  better  say  good-night 
now!"  I  suggested. 

"No,  no,  yer  can't  go!"  squeaked  the  sev- 
enth baby,  and  a  sudden  change  came  over 
the  merry  independence  of  her  little  face.  I 
had  often  seen  that  change  before.  I  watched 
it  creep  about  those  pouting  baby  lips  now, 
and  shadow  the  laughing  sweetness  of  a 
Gutter-baby's  eyes.  I  saw  the  pinched  fea- 
tures of  sickness  twisted  into  a  pain  that  was 
sadder  than  the  grey  warning  of  death.  This 
new  enemy,  in  whose  grip  we  must  leave  the 
seventh  baby  to  struggle,  was  the  nostalgia 
of  Guttergarten. 

"It  ain't  that  I'm  not  'appy  'ere!"  we 
heard  Ivy  sobbing  in  the  arms  of  a  sympa- 
thetic nurse;  "it's  'eaven  to  me,  this  place  is, 
so  warm  and  all,  and  a  dinner  every  dy,  but, 
oh,  'ow  I  does  want  to  run  the  streets  ag'in!" 

332 


Sick  Gutter-Babies 

"I  s'pose,"  said  the  solemn  Art  Nursling, 
"if  I  were  in  there  all  warm  and  sleepy,  I'd 
want  to  get  up  and  work  again!" 

"We're  all  cryin'  fer  somethin'  as  we  don't 
get!"  observed  Special  Johnny  wisely. 

As  we  turned  out  of  the  Dispensary  into 
Guttergarten,  the  voices  of  the  children 
straining  at  the  top  notes  of  their  evening 
hymn  reached  our  ears. 

"  Dily,  dily,  sing  the  praises,  of  the  city  Gawd  'ave 
mide!" 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

The  Twilight  of  Johnny 

ONE  had  known  all  along  that  there 
must  be  the  End.  In  a  way  it  had 
been  always  present  —  as  one  scents 
the  damp  still  twilight  in  the  hot  flush  of  a 
summer  daybreak.  Once,  behind  a  screen 
carefully  pasted  all  over  with  cast-away 
Christmas  Cards,  in  a  long  cool  room  where 
rows  of  solemn  snowy  beds  stared  sternly  at 
each  other,  one  had  watched  a  little  frowning 
face  toss  restlessly  among  the  pillows,  and 
thought  the  End  might  be  coming  in  that 
way,  and  had  held  the  small  dry  feverish 
hand  and  stroked  the  hot  aching  little  head, 
with  a  dreadful  pang  lest  each  touch  might 
be  the  last.  But  when  each  nurse  in  the  ward 
had  in  turn,  and  not  without  sufficient  reason, 
cursed  her  profession,  Johnny  crawled  back 
again,  a  little  more  exacting  and  uncertain, 
to  look  out  at  Gutter-life  once  more  with 
eyes  a  little  bigger  and  brighter  than  ever  — 

334 


The  Twilight  of  Johnny 

and  the  fear  of  the  End  was  swallowed  up  in 
sunshine,  only  to  threaten  us  again  and  lower 
menacingly  over  our  heads  for  one  miserable 
week. 

The  over-crowding  of  Johnny's  one-roomed 
home  was  becoming  every  year  a  more  tre- 
mendous problem,  and  the  natural  disposi- 
tions of  Johnny  did  not  help  him  to  adapt 
himself  to  it.  He  was  for  ever  waking  the 
baby  —  punching  his  little  brothers  and  tear- 
ing his  little  sisters'  pinafores.  He  played 
truant  consistently  in  spite  of  the  daily  reso- 
lution which  he  made  when  parting  with  me, 
"'E'll  start  termorrer,  and  go  ter  schule 
reg'lar  now! "  He  could  never  be  found  when 
wanted,  except  at  dinner-time,  and  had  no 
conception  whatever  of  a  parental  authority 
that  limited  his  freedom  of  action.  His 
mother  was  worn  out  with  constantly  being 
dragged  away  from  her  many  cares  to  hear 
the  latest  harassing  recital  of  her  Johnny's 
devilry. 

In  vain  I  tried  to  defend  the  caprice  of  un- 
developed genius.  The  long-suffering  neigh- 
bourhood which  he  had  plagued  beyond 

335 


Gutter-Babies 

endurance,  hammering  on  frenzied  knockers, 
throwing  stones  till  there  was  not  a  square  inch 
of  glass  left  for  miles  round,  frightening  shy 
horses  and  catapulting  the  costers'  donkeys, 
voiced  its  indignation  in  the  universal  cry, 
"Johnny  must  be  put  away!" 

And  so  the  End  seemed  very  near.  We  sat 
through  a  long  dull  afternoon  of  suspense, 
looking  into  each  other's  eyes  with  a  sorrow- 
ful pity,  while  the  Committee  discussed  and 
wrangled  over  the  awful  question. 

"Will  yer  cum  an'  see  yer  little  Johnny?" 
he  enquired  beseechingly,  in  an  anxious  whis- 
per, when  things  seemed  going  against  us. 
"Will  I  be  yer  little  Johnny  still,  wotever 
'appens?" 

Our  only  comfort  during  this  dreadful  day 
was  the  firm  conviction,  deeply  grounded  in 
the  mind  of  each  of  us,  that  no  Institution 
under  the  wide  sky  would  hold  the  restless 
little  body  of  my  Johnny  against  its  own 
inclination. 

"Cheer  up,  I'll  foind  yer  ag'in  some'ow!" 
he  nodded  wisely,  and  I  knew  him  too  well 
not  to  believe  it. 

336 


The  Twilight  of  Johnny 

But  just  as  the  Committee  discovered  a 
thirst  at  the  suggestion  of  a  clink  of  teacups, 
and  the  Chairman  began  to  feel  pressed  for 
time,  Johnny's  governess  appeared,  on  this 
one  occasion,  at  least,  as  his  champion. 
Neither  of  us  remembers  quite  what  oc- 
curred. The  atmosphere  was  a  little  con- 
vulsed. It  was  the  kind  of  case  that  gets  hold 
of  a  Committee  like  an  epidemic.  They  had 
all  the  particulars  so  readily  to  hand  and  the 
money  was  pouring  in;  they  had  a  letter  of 
admission  for  a  suitable  home,  too,  and  it  was 
such  a  pity  to  waste  it ;  and  they  were  so  sure 
of  what  they  were  doing  —  which  was  satis- 
factory, if  unusual!  They  were  going  to 
teach  a  poor  mother  not  to  feel  responsible 
for  the  child  she  had  brought  into  being  by 
her  own  act.  They  were  going  to  give  a  little 
Gutter-baby  just  enough  to  eat,  and  just 
enough  to  wear,  and  the  right  to  a  wonderful 
bed  in  the  corner  of  a  clean  room,  where  he 
would  weep  himself  to  sleep  often,  and  wake 
up  feeling  about  in  the  darkness  with  cold 
lonely  hands  for  the  warm  bodies  of  the  little 
brothers  he  had  lost.  And  they  were  going  to 

337 


Gutter-Babies 

smile  as  if  they  had  done  a  very  clever  thing, 
when  one  day  the  little  wild  spirit  bruised 
itself  into  sullen  submission  against  the  gilded 
bars  of  their  Charity.  But  the  verdict  of 
Johnny's  teacher  was  important,  and  it  hap- 
pened to  be  particularly  clear  and  decided 
and  allowed  no  compromise.  She  said  a  great 
deal  about  the  arrest  of  development,  and 
effect  of  unwise  discipline  on  a  sensitive  mind, 
and  she  alluded  with  hopefulness  to  the  affec- 
tionate disposition  of  my  Johnny.  She  ad- 
mitted that  he  was  difficult,  and  that  his 
ruling  passion  was  greed  —  but  they  were 
greedy  who  would  have  robbed  me  of  my  one 
little  Gutter-lamb.  Then  she  sat  down  very 
hot,  and  longing  heartily,  no  doubt,  for  her 
familiar  school-room  with  its  eccentric  and 
beloved  little  company. 

But  the  case  of  Special  Johnny  was  dis- 
missed. 

He  showed  his  relief  in  the  way  most  natu- 
ral to  him. 

He  "pinched"  the  little  girls'  dinner  tick- 
ets, and  used  them  for  his  own  needs,  and 
knocked  any  resentment  on  the  head  at  once. 

338 


The  Twilight  of  Johnny 

He  raced  the  streets  madly  whooping  and 
yelling  in  an  exuberance  of  spirits  until  he 
seemed  to  be  clinging  to  every  vehicle  that 
rattled  by.  He  developed  an  awful  terror  of 
the  law  and  fled  whenever  a  policeman  ap- 
peared. He  tormented  and  bullied  me  till  I 
began  to  feel  a  little  less  active  animosity 
towards  the  Committee  that  had  so  nearly 
settled  his  fate. 

But  the  End  did  come  upon  us  at  last,  and 
I  remembered  only  that  I  had  lost  my  Johnny. 
He  came  in  one  morning  with  very  few  clothes 
on,  in  rather  an  excited  condition  and  flung 
himself  on  the  floor. 

"Blest  ef  I  ain't  bin  er  pawnin'  twenty 
'undred  tonnes  terdy!"  he  explained,  and 
bounced  on  a  chair,  like  a  little  shabby  ball 
that  has  weathered  many  puddles.  "The 
landlord  sez  ter  mother,  sez  'e,  'if  'er  don't  py 
ternight,'  sez  'e,  'out  'er  goes.'  We  can't  go 
fer,  I  sez,  I  should  n't  loike  ter  lose  yer!" 

I  did  not  feel  inclined  to  consider  the  matter 
very  seriously;  the  Gutter-folk  generally  get 
money  if  they  really  need  it.  In  fact,  after  a 
time  one  comes  to  know  that  it  is  only  for 

339 


Gutter-Babies 

reasons  of  economy  that  they  have  none ;  and 
the  cares  of  a  busy  day  soon  rushed  in  to  crowd 
out  any  remembrance  of  Johnny's  suggestion. 

But  I  woke  in  the  night  with  a  queer  sense 
of  something  wrong.  It  was  too  still  for  an 
alarm  of  fire,  there  were  no  voices,  no  red 
glow  and  no  crowd.  A  dog  barked  once  in  the 
silence  below.  Very  soon  the  birds  would  be 
singing  to  the  dawn,  and  I  slipped  back  into 
a  half- waking  dream.  The  empty  street,  as  it 
twisted  round  to  the  left  past  the  "Blue 
Star,"  held  a  group  of  stealthy  figures,  sliding 
away  into  the  distance;  and  it  seemed  to  me 
that  one  lingered  there  and  looked  back  at 
me  as  it  merged  into  the  shadows.  I  am  thank- 
ful for  that  memory  at  least. 

The  End  must  have  happened  anyhow. 
In  the  childhood  of  the  ages  a  garden  or  a 
Gutter  is  big  enough  for  humanity.  But  the 
world  survived  the  garden,  as  the  mind  of 
Special  Johnny  must  soon  have  outgrown  the 
small  environment  of  our  correspondence.  It 
is  blessed  to  have  a  friend  to  miss  in  his 
absence,  but  it  is  a  thing  past  endurance  to 
learn  to  miss  him  when  he  is  with  you.  So 

340 


A  group  of  stealthy  figures  sliding  away 


The  Twilight  of  Johnny 

the  end  was  merciful,  and  I  may  still  listen 
through  the  years  for  the  sound  of  his  little 
two-wheeled  chariot,  stacked  with  the  fruits 
of  Co  vent  Garden,  as  he  drives  furiously  over 
the  cobbles,  a  clumsy  gruff-voiced  Jehu  with 
a  patient  tired  broken-kneed  donkey,  slip- 
ping and  straining  and  tumbling  under  him, 
while  Gutter-babies  fly  to  their  mothers  with 
their  hearts  in  their  mouths. 

I  was  not  quite  sure  next  morning  what 
had  occurred,  and  mistrusted,  as  one  always 
does  with  the  daybreak,  any  kind  of  premoni- 
tion. Hurrying  up  the  strangely  friendless 
street,  I  entered  the  house  where  Johnny  had 
passed  four  years  of  his  young  lifetime.  A 
cat  was  expectorating  on  the  threshold.  I 
brushed  past  and  climbed  the  creaking  stair- 
way. One  glance  at  the  room  revealed  its  cruel 
secret.  The  little  home  was  there,  but  the 
family  had  gone. 

His  pet  bird,  a  twittering,  restive  linnet, 
was  hopping  searchingly  from  perch  to  perch 
in  a  small  square  cage  pinned  to  the  wall. 
There  was  no  one  to  offer  it  breakfast  this 
morning,  but  its  eye  was  hopeful  yet. 


Gutter-Babies 

It  was  the  one  little  commonplace  detail 
that  has  its  part  in  every  tragedy,  and  makes 
it  just  too  hard  to  bear.  I  picked  out  the  tiny 
stick  that  fastened  its  prison.  The  bird  flew 
straight  out  of  the  broken  window  across  the 
forest  of  grey  chimneys  into  the  blue  sky,  and 
its  little  cage  hung  against  the  wall,  empty  as 
a  human  heart. 


THE   END 


(Cbc 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U   .  S   .  A 


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